


Abstract Impressions

by folie_aplusieurs



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Angst, Bandom Big Bang 2018, Bath sex kinda, Depression, Hiatus, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, References to Suicide, Sad Patrick, Sad Pete, That One Blog Post Patrick Wrote, The plot is basically a 20th century novel, We Liked You Better Fat, a lot of internal monologue, blowjob, but there are cute scenes, falling back in love, friends - Freeform, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 20:16:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16793998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/folie_aplusieurs/pseuds/folie_aplusieurs
Summary: They're not supposed to talk about all the ways the hiatus hurt and broke them, all the fights and drama that led them here. Pete knows this rule; Pete's memorized this rule.But then that blog post pops up on his screen, the one by Patrick everyone's talking about, "We Liked You Better Fat" -- and every reason to follow that rule comes crumbling down.Rushing to Patrick's side is the natural response but this time's different than all the rest. This time, Patrick doesn't want him around.Pete knows better than most, though, that needs and wants are very different things. Patrick may not want him but he does need him. And Pete just might need Patrick, too.~Abstract Impressionism: A type of abstract painting where small brushstrokes build and structure something much larger...





	Abstract Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Bandom Big Bang 2018! This has been a wonderful experience and I hope everyone enjoys this piece (especially considering it's at least 60% the reason I haven't been working on BIV). I am in love with the title of this fic, btw, so please feel free to pester me into talking about it lol. I promise it's quite symbolic.
> 
> The biggest of shoutouts to [Hum My Name](https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Kind_of_Crazy/pseuds/Hum%20My%20Name) for betaing this beast! She's put up with far more angst and doubt and horrendous writing than any one person should be and, for that, I am eternally grateful.
> 
> And the uber fantastic [stoplightglow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoplightglow/pseuds/stoplightglow) has created this amazing playlist to go along with the fic. Listen to it while you read and be sure to check out the write up explaining each song choice, too! [Mix](https://www.dropbox.com/sh/b8frxrpjm6ge39n/AADvg3luEbKVVsA35vDoeGoZa?dl=0) and [Write Up](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1KabjQ21ZyR4KKoMmHG8WtN9jHcQ_0K2ENLcm8x1IL3w/edit?usp=sharing)
> 
> Now, please enjoy this fic! It's super important to me and I hope that you feel every emotion I poured into it. Leave a comment, leave a thought, and let me know what you think <3

**_We Liked You Better Fat: Confessions of a Pariah_ **

Pete knows better than to read it. Or, well, to read more than he already has. The title is clickbait, he’s sure, and it’s not like Patrick would react so harshly— so publicly— to a bit of cruel backlash and insensitive fans. They dealt with worse on the Folie tour and the first paragraph of his post, at least, doesn’t ring any of the warning bells Pete had worried they would. A friend had sent him the link and, while he isn’t yet sure if it was for a reaction or better intention, he’s not quite grateful that they had.

Still, his laptop remains open as he reclines on the couch, the screen daring him to scroll down. 

It’s curiosity, nothing more— or, at least, that’s what he tells himself. It’s the same feeling that rushes across his skin whenever he passes by Patrick’s name in his phone, whenever radios play his newer songs, whenever fans send pictures and edits as if those are things he’d want to see. 

It’s nothing.

But, then, if it’s nothing, shouldn’t he be safe in reading on? 

The logic is faulty but Pete never claimed to be rational. 

The second paragraph is much like the first, distinctly Patrick in its wordiness and sense of vulnerability. The third paragraph is nothing more than a quote— one Pete scoffs at. It’s something he’s heard a hundred times over the dozen years— give or take— he and his band had been together. Nothing new and nothing to worry about.

No. The worry doesn’t set in until the fourth paragraph.

_ … all I’ve ever done, all I ever will do, and all I ever had the capacity to do worth a damn was a record I began recording when I was 18 years old… _

If he didn’t know Patrick, Pete might have taken it as a bitter remark or a snarky retort from a musician who’s begun to realize he’s burnt out. He’d read past it without a thought— maybe a laugh, at worst. 

But this was written by Patrick, though, and he knows Patrick better than he’s sure he knows himself.

He reads more, scanning each saddened statement and cutting confession— insults Pete had heard but never know the extent of and financial troubles no one’s spread a whisper about until now. As words swim before his eyes, Pete wonders what’s worse: the offhand remarks of posthumous success or the feelings of worthlessness Patrick— Patrick, of all people— is expressing.

He supposes it doesn’t matter which cuts deepest, seeing as each sends his stomach on a violent spin. 

It’s a reaction he shouldn’t be having to someone who stormed out after a fight and never came back but it’s the reaction he knew he’d have; it’s a reaction the entire world knew he would have.

He swallows down the sickness in his throat, the bile crawling up and pressing against his tongue as the story grows worse— haters and threats and everything Pete dealt with so Patrick wouldn’t have to.

He stops reading halfway through, hands pressed to eyes burning for a reason he can’t name. This feeling will pass, he’s sure. They always do, anyway. Seeing Patrick’s name or hearing his voice— through a screen, through a radio, or a misplaced magazine page— always grant him an overreaction wasted in the isolation he’s left himself in after the Black Cards’ seperation. It’ll last a day or a month, moping and staring at old CD covers as if one of them will be a portal to the days where he didn’t have to wonder about where Patrick was— when he didn’t have to wonder what Patrick was to him. 

Eventually, those feelings fade as if waking from a dream. This, too, will leave him.

He takes a breath as he repeats this to himself. He opens his eyes once more and they land on the most damning line yet.

_ It’s as though I’ve received some big cosmic sign that says I should disappear— _

Pete’s heart twists and leaps into his throat, ready to run away without him. He shakes his head, all too aware that there’s no one here to see. He doesn’t want to read anymore, doesn’t want to accept that Patrick feels like… like this. 

But he doesn’t want to pretend everything’s okay, either.

— _ So I’ve kind of disappeared… _

Pete’s head falls back and hangs over the side of the couch. His hands find his eyes once more and his voice is hushed.

“Damn this,” he says. “Damn this all.”

~ ~ ~

When Pete arrives at the house everything is already different. The smoke from burned candles and the air leftover from last night’s rain spread through the first few rooms, mingling with the sour smell of household chores left undone for too long. He winces as he walks around emptied bags of junk food crinkling on the floor and dishes set on every available surface. It’s a scene Pete’s familiar with— intimately so, a time after the band had split and he thought there was nothing left to do. 

It’s a time he shakes from his head as he looks around the darkened house. This isn’t about him.

Or, at least, he desperately hopes it isn’t.

The house is silent as he crosses through the living room and kitchen, his heart beating a cruel tune in his chest. He won’t acknowledge why he’s so afraid and he won’t think of what that blog post sounded like but, with each passing second of silence, he becomes more certain that he’s too late to fix anything now.

His heart and last meal threaten to throw themselves up his throat and onto the dirtied carpet beneath him when, finally, he hears a noise. A creak.

A sign of life.

He follows the sound to the backyard, kicking himself for not thinking of it earlier. The door’s open, letting golden streams of sunset into the house, and he steps through without a thought, without a plan. He has no idea what he’s going to say or if he’s meant to say anything at all. He just knows he has to be here.

“Didn’t your mother teach you not to break into a stranger’s home?” 

Pete pauses, heart jumping, as someone speaks.

As Patrick speaks.

His voice is different than before— lighter, perhaps, but only because it’s so empty of emotion. It carries through the air, not on the magic it once did, but on the gentle breeze brushing past Pete as he lingers in the doorway, not quite inside and not quite out.

He chooses his words as if they’re precious; he prays they make sense.

“You’re not a stranger, though,” he says, testing each word for a crack before releasing it into the air. If Patrick’s words were lifted by the wind then Pete’s are each going for their first test flight, meant to reach their destination or tumble to the ground with no chance of survival. “And the door was unlocked, anyway.”

“I know,” Patrick says, twisting a needle into Pete’s chest with how hollow he sounds. “I figured you’re the only one who’d care enough to break in. Might as well save you the trouble.”

At this, Pete’s eyebrows furrow together. Does Patrick mean he knew Pete would come? Or was it an attempt at a joke, a sarcastic remark? 

It kills him inside that he can’t understand him anymore. 

Patrick sighs at Pete’s silence and, finally, Pete steps fully outside. For a moment, the sun blinds him as it makes one last attempt at brilliance before sinking into the horizon. He sees stars and bursts of light and, after blinking so hard it hurts, he sees Patrick. 

His hair’s so blonde that Pete’s sure it’s still a side effect of the light in his eyes, an excuse he uses on Patrick’s pale complexion, as well. But the deep blue eyes staring out across the backyard as he leans into the swinging bench he’s seated on are far too vibrant to write off as illusion. They won’t look at him and Pete doesn’t expect them to, no matter how he misses their colors. Instead, Pete lets his own gaze drop sorrowfully onto the ragged blanket wrapped around Patrick’s shaking frame and the way Patrick’s knuckles grow white around the edges as Pete steps closer, clinging to the fabric as if it can protect him. 

He looks horrible and he looks a bit pathetic. Beneath the blanket, his pajamas are wrinkled enough that Pete can guess he’s been wearing them for at least a week. His hair’s a mess and his skin is dry and Pete’s never seen someone else look so bad.

He’s never seen anyone but himself look so defeated. His heart would hurt from this alone but the fact that it’s Patrick shatters it.

“I’m not the only one,” Pete says, at last. He stops a few feet away from Patrick and gets the horrible feeling that he was wrong, that he shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know what the limits are and how easy it would be to push them. His voice drops lower and he almost raises his hands in surrender to show he means no harm to this cornered animal. “I mean, I’m not the only one cares. Other people care, Patrick. You know that.”

Patrick’s face tenses and Pete breathes a small sigh of relief at the sight. It’s barely anything, just a few muscles twitching, but at least there’s still some emotion in him. There’s something he can work with.

“I would hope you’re smart enough not to bring anyone,” Patrick says tightly, his voice still too small for how harshly he’s glaring at nothing. 

It’s the note of irritation in his voice that has Pete stepping closer; it’s the wavering fear in the words that has him dropping to his knees before him.

“Of course not,” he says. “I know you wouldn’t want that.” 

Patrick’s silent a second longer, throat swallowing down hitching breaths and shaking sighs. When he speaks again, he won’t meet Pete’s eyes. “Shouldn’t you be with Ashlee?”

Ashlee. Right. Pete winces, knowing Patrick won’t see the flicker of guilt crossing his face. The wound from the divorce isn’t fresh by any means— he saw it coming a while ago, the same second the tabloids believed he might actually make the marriage work— but he still hasn’t told Patrick and now just doesn’t seem like the right time.

“I think you need me a bit more that she does right now.”

Patrick scoffs but Pete’s determined, closer to Patrick than he’s been in years. His skin cries for Patrick’s touch— a pain he’s soothed with sleeping pills and booze. He hurts for Patrick’s voice, his laughter, his eyes. A piece of his soul cracks against his bones as it tries to find a brighter life within Patrick but finds himself greeted with yet another dull expression.

Pete’s will wavers as Patrick continues staring away from him, stiff as a corpse. Bitterness spins circles on Pete’s tongue, cruelly reminding him how out of place all this is as his fears take the shape of pills he can’t quite swallow.

There’s nothing for Pete to do but sit and hope for Patrick to speak to him. There’s nothing to say but a thousand apologies he’s sure Patrick wouldn’t want to hear.

What does Patrick want, though? When he’s breaking and broken in every way Pete perfected, what does he yearn for? Does his being shudder from the proximity of Pete, as well? Does his mind whir with words left unsaid? Is he a little less lonely or does he hate that someone’s here?

Does he hate that it’s Pete who’s arrived?

Back when Pete was at his worst— when days looked dark and the nights never ended— he wished for Patrick. Unknowingly, of course, he reached out for the singer, broken shards of himself in his hands as he cried out for help. He hadn’t known what he was doing each time he crawled into Patrick’s bunk or pressed against him during interviews but Patrick seemed to know enough for the both of them. He’d remove the shattered remains from Pete’s body and mind with the gentlest of touches, murmuring songs he’d not yet shared with anyone else. He pieced him back together. He wasn’t always patient— god forbid Patrick ever show an ounce of the virtue— but he was kind. He was persistent. He knew what to do and the best way to do it. 

And now Pete can’t return the favor.

His eyes flicker down at his hands but he forces them back up to Patrick’s face, taking in the misplaced misery in his eyes. Patrick was never meant to wear that look so well, never created to understand how it feels when haters outnumber the ones who were supposed to love you. Sure, he sang the lines Pete wrote and he held Pete late at night but he was never meant to comprehend the full extent. He was never meant to look the way he does now.

Words jumble together like remixed lyrics on Pete’s tongue, pleas for forgiveness and other nonsensical lines he should have practiced if he wanted to say them. The need to speak outweighs the desire to stay silent, though, and he whispers the only words that matter.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” He doesn’t mean to demand and, really, he doesn’t think it’s a demand, at all. Still, Patrick tears his head to the side and tightens his jaw. The muscles around his mouth and eyes twitch and, for a horrible moment, Pete swears Patrick’s going to cry. The thought causes his heart to jerk to a stop as if it’s been stolen from his chest. 

Though Patrick keeps silent and impassive, Pete shuts his eyes before witnessing any further proof of devastation. He reaches for Patrick— for his hand, his knee, for anything— but feels only the tattered blanket beneath his fingers. It’s rough, a testament to how dirty it’s become, and Pete nods to himself.

Dirty blankets and filthy clothes. He can start there, at least. He can fix that.

Already, eyes closed and head bowed, Pete plans the most basic care. A shower and some clean clothes for Patrick— if he’s lucky, he might even convince him to sleep. It’s not a cure but it’s a start and, Pete hopes, it should still help a bit.

At least, he begs and prays that it will help him.

He’s too out of his depth and the thought is only proven when panic rises in his gut at the feeling of Patrick shifting. Is he leaving? Is he sleeping? And, if he is, is he going to wake up? Pete doesn’t know what Patrick did before he came here— he doesn’t know if he’s too late to stop what he’d been so afraid of finding.

His heartbeat calms once Patrick’s still, having moved only to pull the blanket tighter around himself. Heavy breaths fill Pete’s mouth and, though the sun has set, the air suddenly feels too warm.

Patrick fell apart; Pete’s golden boy was torn to pieces and he wasn’t here to stop it. He wasn’t here to catch the shards as they fell. Pete wishes he knew the exact moment Patrick sat down to write that post, wishes he could trace back his own schedule and find out what was so damn important that he couldn’t protect his best friend.

These thoughts, though, will only lead to insanity. Though his skin is burning and his eyes are scorching, he shoves them away. He wasn’t here then but he’s here now and it’s no use dwelling on the past when the present is so much more dangerous. 

“Come on, Patrick,” he says, forgoing every familiar nickname still sleeping beneath his tongue.  _ Lunchbox, Trick, Pattycakes _ — all fond memories of a time destined to lead them here. And, here, alone with Patrick’s shattered heart before him, Pete doesn’t know what name he’s supposed to say. 

Patrick bites his bottom lip as Pete rises, irritating the deeper red lines crossing the skin, places where sharp teeth had bitten through or nervous fingernails had torn it apart. “Pete, I—”

“Come  _ on _ ,” Pete pleads, reaching for Patrick’s hands and nearly falling to his knees once more when Patrick’s trembling fingers wrap back around his own. Dry and cracking skin presses against Pete’s but he thinks nothing of it— or, at least, he tells himself not to think of it. He pulls Patrick to his feet instead, breath caught in his throat as he does so. He’d imagined it would be strange to see Patrick again— to speak to him, to feel him beneath his hands— but he never thought he would feel so sad. He tries to find Patrick’s eyes with his own, ducking his head and searching for something Patrick refuses to grant him. “Let me help you.”

Wind brushes past them to knock softly at the wall, the scent of spring thick on its breath, grass and flowers and the promise of rain. Though Patrick frowns at the brief chill, Pete accepts it with a gracious grin.

Spring is a time for youthful joy and hopeful growth, for storybook romances and bright-eyed smiles. Winter ended a few days ago and Spring’s been ushered in with all her glory. 

Spring is a time for change. Rebirth and renewal. 

Pete prays she keeps her promise as he leads Patrick back into the darkened house.

~ ~ ~

The gloom of Patrick’s home breaks every unspoken promise, each oath shattering with the fragility of a serene pond caught in the middle of a sudden storm.

Pete convinces Patrick into the shower with little more than a soft suggestion and imploring look. Patrick doesn’t speak though his sighs are profuse. His eyes stay on the floor as if ashamed or upset and Pete leaves him to the bathroom before the atmosphere can grow any more embarrassing for either of them. 

As he cleans Patrick’s house— neither a burden or a chore— he hates the fact that it’s embarrassing at all. His entire body aches in the strangest of ways as he reflects on the small interaction he’d just had. His skin tingles in humiliation and his fingertips spark with sensitivity each time he bothers to pick up another empty beer bottle left on the floor. Even his eyes burn with regret. Not for coming here, though; no, his regret is for waiting so long.

Though harsher issues are usually easier for him to face with an attempt at levity and light-heartedness, Pete can’t find any piece of his mind willing to joke about the situation. He thinks back to the texts he’d received from friends, the strangers sending him to the blog post with the best of intentions in their words.

_ Something’s up with Patrick _ , they’d said.  _ I think he’s upset. _

Upset— that’s too mild a word for it. Pale skin and dark eyes don’t appear after a small fit, a temper tantrum thrown at a screen in the midst of a drunken rage as so many media outlets were trying to say. Messy hair and a croaking voice aren’t the results of a bad day— they’re the acknowledgment of a cracked and breaking mental state. 

The worst part of it all, though, is that Pete didn’t need to see Patrick in order to know any of this. Patrick’s carefully typed-out words still echo in his mind, piercing him with the same terror he’d felt when he first read it. Cold and sudden, tearing into his chest with the realization that Patrick was broken. Patrick was hurting.

Patrick was feeling the exact same way Pete was when he believed nothing in his life could ever get better.

And Patrick wasn’t—  _ isn’t— _ supposed to feel that way. Pete wouldn’t wish such lonely thoughts on anyone— but for Patrick to be the one crying out? For Patrick to be falling apart, slipping through Pete’s fingers like something that was never meant to stay in his hands for long? For Patrick to be in any kind of pain? The thought of it burns.

All Pete can think is that he failed him. With every room he cleans, with every mess he sees, he knows he failed Patrick. His best friend, his shooting star, his collection of everything good left in the world… Pete turned his back on him when the band went their separate ways. He was supposed to shield Patrick and, for the better part of Patrick’s life, he had. He’d done everything he could to make sure the ice and chill of the world’s cruelty could never reach him.

But Patrick was just as exposed by Pete as he was sheltered by him and, when Pete left, Patrick was faced with everything Pete had been trying to keep away. 

Pete knows he’s not perfect and he knows there was no way to keep Patrick hidden behind him. Arguments became too much to handle by the time the ending of the band rolled around and the last thing Pete wanted was to put up with the barbs Patrick kept throwing his way— scorned and lashing out in ways that were neither justified or unjustified. Pete didn’t want to see him anymore; he didn’t want to speak to him.

But he didn’t want to hurt him, either, and that’s still exactly what he did.

Guilt drips through Pete’s muscles, invading his skin and bones, sinking into his breath and blood with the steadiness of an IV. It sedates the comfort he covered himself in each time he turned to lick the wounds from fights that wounded them both.

He starts the dishwasher then moves onto the laundry room, the blanket from before bundled and tangled beneath his arm. He pointedly ignores the ease in which he finds the detergent and hampers, barely batting an eye at the number of dirty clothes spilling out of their respective bins. It’s just a bit out of control compared to tour but— aside from the culmination of all the messes throughout the house— there’s nothing terribly wrong.

Not but the fact that Patrick’s been hurt and Pete’s the one less unscathed for once.

Nothing but the fact that nothing’s right, not really. Not at all.

By the time the house is clean, the methodical process of dusting and sweeping allowing Pete to ignore his own cruel thoughts, Patrick still hasn’t come downstairs. If it weren’t for the soft shuffling in the otherwise silent house, Pete would be feeling sick.

Well, sicker. It feels wrong to downplay the constant terror he feels at Patrick’s breakdown but, he knows, a broken Patrick is better than no Patrick— even if one can lead, eventually, to the other.

The point is, he reminds himself, something broken is something that can be fixed.

And he does plan on fixing this.

He shuts his eyes, darkness shrouding and protecting the promise he knows he has to make— a promise he already made years ago, a promise he broke with lies and omissions.

He promises to protect Patrick.

And, he adds on to the original oath, he plans on fixing him, too. 

~ ~ ~

_ When the argument comes, it’s the calmest the two have spoken in months. Low, trembling voices dance through the air— lips half-formed around words that could be lyrics if this were a prettier setting, a more poetic moment. If they were characters on a screen meant to fall in love in the middle of a fight, clashing with violent kisses and passionate embraces. Apologies and confessions always interrupt such moments, don’t they? _

_ But there are no cameras and there is no stage— just the back of a bus on the last day of a vicious tour. Of this, Pete’s terribly aware. _

_ “Oh, darling, I know what you’re going through?” Patrick quotes, holding the tattered and torn sheets Pete had passed him in white-knuckled fists. “Boycott love and… and, fuck, what makes you so special? What am I supposed to fucking make of that? How am I supposed to fucking sing that?” Something terrible— secretive, small, sublime— plays with Patrick’s voice, as delirious as Pete feels— a delirium so great it some like some archaic revelation. _

_ “I don’t know what you mean,” Pete says. Weak. Unbelievable. “They’re just lyrics, Patrick. They don’t mean any—’ _

_ “Don’t fucking say they don’t mean anything,” Patrick cuts in, his voice so low it’s nearly a growl. Pete should not find it as attractive as it is and, fuck, if that doesn’t prove Patrick’s point exactly. “You keep doing this shit and… and I can’t stand it. It’s not fair to either of us and you fucking know it. You… you write like… like you mean something. Like  _ **_I_ ** _ mean something or like you feel a certain way but you never want to own up to it. Do you know how many times I’ve… I’ve read through your lyrics and thought…. Hoped… But you never follow through. You never mean it and I’m not singing a damn word until you do.” _

_ Patrick’s voice is burning and breaking, the papers in his hands tearing. Pete has no response for him, no words to deny or confirm what Patrick already seems to know is true. _

_ When he speaks again, Patrick sounds as if he should be crying, his voice paler than before and trembling like a song left on repeat. _

_ “It… It would be fine if it was just this once. Or even just a few times. But it’s been going on forever, Pete.” He rubs his eyes, still dry but slowly tinging a red shade. “Best kept secret and biggest mistake, right? Kisses on the necks of best friends and… and…. I’m supposed to love you? Can you be any more blatant? Any more fucking obvious? I might not have said anything before but I kept thinking you would. I thought… I thought I was everything you were writing about but… but I need to know. I need to hear you say it.” _

_ Pete pauses, long enough to catch a breath he hadn’t known he’d lost. It’d be easier if Patrick refused to meet his eyes or if he appeared as meek as he sounds. But Pete knows better than anyone that Patrick’s never been so docile and, over time, that colorful temper has flourished.  _

_ It’ll be a miracle if they finish this album cycle— Folie A Deux,  _ **_their_ ** _ album, the most important one yet— intact. _

_ Finally, Pete answers in the worst possible way. “What if I say you’re wrong?” _

_ “Then I won’t sing it anymore.” _

_ Pete reels back from Patrick’s answer— a jack-in-the-box in the form of words. He knew it was coming and he knew to expect it but, still, he’s sick from the intensity in which the statement’s attacked him. _

_ “That’s not how this works.” More horrible words, more terrible answers. “That’s not… We’ve never done it like that.” _

_ “Like what?” Patrick’s red in the face, a wire Pete should know better than to cut. _

_ He doesn’t know if it's his own self-destructive tendencies or the panicked frustration that has him rambling things he barely believes. _

_ “Like… Like, where you say no.”  _

_ Patrick quirks an eyebrow but stays silent. It’s a bad decision on his part. Anything that gives Pete time to speak is bad. _

_ “Like,” Pete says, rants, spits out with venom he only feels towards himself. “You’re not supposed to say no. You write the music and you sing the words. You’re…. You’ve always been the voice for my words and you’re going to sing what I write! You’ll be the singer this band needs— the singer I fucking need— and sing it without complaining. That’s what my singer is supposed to do.” _

_ He doesn’t realize how wrong he is as easily as he should. Not even when Patrick’s eyes widen and his lips part. Not even when his face burns in shame and his throat closes up because he knows the only place such a conversation will lead them. Not even when Patrick swallows repeatedly and not even when Patrick steps away. _

_ It’s the sound of Patrick’s voice that brings all horror and fear to life. _

_ “Your singer?”  _

_ Silence.  _

_ Pete’s said all he could and, for once, his words have faded away, leaving Patrick to fill the void between them. _

_ “Your fucking singer?”  _

_ Patrick’s breaths heave. _

_ Pete shuts his eyes but still sees nightmares. _

_ “Does that make this your band? Your music? Yours, entirely?” Patrick’s words are too slow to be safe, the calm before a storm that will never end. He bites off his own voice with a harsh laugh, a bark of pain and anger. “Right, I forgot, it’s the fucking Pete Wentz show now, right? God forbid any of us to have a fucking say.” _

_ “Patrick—” Pete’s found his voice but, by now, it’s far too late. His eyes open; the nightmares remain. _

_ “You make no damn sense.” Patrick shakes his head, backing away with what sounds like a knot in his throat. “I’m yours but you can’t admit that you’re writing love songs about me? You can’t admit that you—” _

_ “It’s not that you’re mine!” Pete shouts, wincing at the vitriol in his own voice. “It’s that you… you were supposed to…” _

_ “What? Love you?” Patrick’s voice is cruel and his eyes are even more so. “Call me when you figure it out, you fucking asshole. Because I knew everything I needed to a long time ago and I’m sick of pretending you’re still just confused.” _

_ When Patrick walks away, the words of the fight echoing through Pete’s mind, Pete’s muscles stop working. Patrick’s name rests on his tongue, a metallic burst of blood beneath his teeth that refuses to bleed out into the air. _

_ He wants to beg Patrick to come back, to scream that he isn’t being fair. Maybe… Maybe Pete has been writing for someone special but none of it matters if the other person doesn’t feel the same. _

_ And Patrick never said that— _

_ “You know what?” Patrick’s voice drifts to him from the doorway, sounding as if it’s already left. “Maybe you did have me. Once, a few times— drunken, stupid, young, whatever. The point is… you did. And you could have kept me. I would have let you keep me.” _

_ A sudden, lurid rush of panic washes through Pete— hot and colorful, burning with the angst of years past and years to come.  _

_ “Patrick, don’t.” He knows he’s lost but something in him has to try. Something in him has to do what it’s always done— beg for Patrick to stay by his side. “Patrick, please, I—” _

_ “Not anymore.” Another cutting blow, another bruise on a heart born with scars and stitches. “I’m not yours anymore.” _

_ When Patrick leaves, Pete’s left with nothing but pure, simple hollowness. _

~ ~ ~

_ “Composer but never composed…” _

_ It’s easier to be honest after Patrick’s left. The door’s barely been shut a minute before Pete’s wrapping stiff fingers around the familiar feeling of a dried up pen.  _

_ He doesn’t think of what the words mean and if they’re an apology or a defense. His handwriting is nothing but messy scrawls as he empties his mind onto the page, biting back the words he wishes he had screamed instead. Ink covers every bit of him— his skin, his tongue, his mind— and he can’t see past the black tears dripping from the pen and onto his tattered notebook. Torn like the pages Patrick had held in trembling fists; ripped like the closest friendship Pete ever had. _

_ The words he writes sing of finality, things to throw into the air in ways everyone will want to dissect. He wonders if Patrick will hear Pete’s sobs when he tries to fit them into another melody. He wonders if Patrick will think of him when he sings it for whatever record it ends up on. _

_ If it ends up on a record, at all. _

_ It feels like Patrick’s in the pen as he writes, describing everything in ways Pete never would. Patrick snapping about how he’s hidden behind Pete and a mic stand; Patrick sighing about how Pete stole him from his youth, how Pete called him a golden ticket when, really, he was still just a child too small for the world around him. _

_ Patrick— falling apart before Pete with the need to feel loved but never receiving it. _

_ Patrick— only ever saying what Pete wants him to. _

_ Patrick. _

_ All Pete’s ever written about is Patrick and, it seems, everyone knows it. _

_ So why not give the habit a proper goodbye? _

_ “ … singing the symphonies of the overdosed”  _

~ ~ ~

Pete thinks of half-written songs and tucked away lyrics as he cooks one of the few dinner meals he knows, Patrick slumped over at the kitchen table with cool drops of water still dripping from his golden locks. Patrick’s doing a wonderful pout at his hands— the expression not unlike a child realizing they’re the only one without a party invitation— and, combined with the Batman pajamas hanging off his small figure, it’d almost be adorable if the situation wasn’t so dire in Pete’s mind.

“So, uh, I saw Andy a bit ago,” Pete says, keeping an eye on the broccoli steaming next to the boiling pasta on the stove. It’s not the most ideal meal to cook— he’d had fantasies of spreading an entire dinner buffet out to lift Patrick’s spirits— but he’d quickly found Patrick’s kitchen to be bare of any reasonable food and was left to put together the few ingredients left behind. So, bowties and broccoli it is. “He and Joe seem to be doing well with their stuff. They’ve got some cool music out, I’m sure you’ve heard it. Would you, um… Well, I’m sure they’ll be doing a show around here sometime. We should go together. They’ve missed you almost as much as— Well, they’ve missed you.”

Patrick’s silence is a horrible thing, drawn out and obvious; it curls into the air like a smoke signal, a sign for help that’s come too late. Pete clears his throat and tries again half-convinced that speaking any louder will convince Patrick to do something other than sulk.

“It’d be good for all of us to hang out,” Pete says, deciding the dinner’s done as he pulls out two plates. “Nothing needs to come from it but I heard you haven’t been seeing much of anyone these days and I just thought—”

“When are you leaving?” Despite his frown and tense shoulders, Patrick’s voice gives away nothing. No emotion, no thought, no hint that he means anything more than what he says. Pete goes still and quiet, lips twitching with the attempt to find those words he’s usually so good with.

Fuck, how did Patrick ever do this? He made it all look so easy, holding Pete together during the worst of times and distracting him from the messes in his own head. Though he’d show frustration, he never slipped up or failed in his attempts to keep Pete from melting in a world too hot for the ice his thoughts can become. 

Now, though, Patrick’s a burning star fizzling out in a world of cold insults and chilling apathy. Patrick’s the one in need and Pete has no one to turn to, no one to learn from, no one to teach him how to calm this chaos.

He takes a breath, setting the plates down with a gentleness he’s surprised he has. When he turns, Patrick’s still staring at his lap but it feels important that Pete’s looking at him, anyway.

After swallowing half a dozen times in an attempt to find his voice, Pete says the words he’d planned the second he sent Patrick into the shower.

“Come back with me. Come… Come stay with me at my home.”

The words are barely out before Patrick’s head snaps up, a curious look in his eyes— shock, bewilderment, anger. It doesn’t matter, Pete supposes. It’s an emotion. It’s something new and it’s all the encouragement Pete needs in order to pursue his attempts to cajole Patrick into leaving.

“You’ve locked yourself away here for god knows how long and… and it’s just not healthy, Trick. I’d feel… I’d feel a lot better if you came to stay with me,” he says, the words rushing out because he can see the gears turning in Patrick’s head— he can see the bull in him, the stubborn Taurus blood, rising to the front with its horns pointed dangerously low. “Just… Just long enough for you to feel better and, like, maybe we can work on some music? Something to take your mind off things or something for you to… to work on or—”

“Oh, because this all matters so much now, does it?” Patrick snaps, face red and hands in fists. He’s angry and embarrassed, all shades of humiliation showing in his skin and eyes. “I know what everyone thinks. You all think that… that stupid post was some kind of… some kind of fucking  _ note _ . You all want to think the absolute worst of me, think that I lost my mind or sense or whatever. Everyone just wants to think the worst. They always do and they’re always wrong.” He spits the words out with a bitter twist of his lips, the sound hitting Pete with the same force his heart took when he’d read through what Patrick had written. 

“But… But were they?” Pete asks, his voice nearly a whisper. “Were they wrong this time?”

Patrick says nothing and the harsh light in his eyes tells Pete everything he needs to know— everything he hadn’t wished to know. Perhaps it’s selfish but he’s glad Patrick’s kept the words tucked away, like lyrics stuffed beneath Pete’s mattress each time he found himself writing about Patrick again.

“No one’s thinking anything bad,” Pete says, hoping the words don’t sound as patronizing as his voice feels. “We’re just worried and—”

“Well, I never asked you to be.” Patrick shoves himself away from the table, standing with a snarl. “Just leave me alone. After so many years, I thought you’d be good at that by now.” With that, he turns and storms up the stairs, slamming doors loud enough for Pete to jump. 

Pete’s breaths come quick and heavy, weighing in his chest like the fear that won’t leave his heart. Waves of nausea wash over him and, he realizes, he’s not ready to deal with this. He’s not prepared and he’s not willing to watch Patrick self-destruct, a star tossing itself from the sky and burning up in the atmosphere of an earth that never deserved it anyway. A shooting star with no more wishes to give.

A small voice in Pete’s head speaks up fearfully, Pete’s heart pounding as if it plans on bursting free from his chest in order to follow Patrick.  _ What happens if I leave him alone? _

Slowly, Pete takes a step forward, his heart leaping into his throat as he imagines locked doors and shattered mirrors, scenes he’s all too familiar with. He pauses, though, at the sound of angered steps across the carpet above him. Patrick’s pacing, a habit Pete remembers from nervous nights on tour and frustrating studio session. He’s just pacing the way he always does.

Somehow, though Patrick’s words linger like wounds on Pete’s skin, the pacing brings him a strange sense of comfort. Not enough for him to breathe any easier but enough for him to turn back towards the dinner he’d been making. With the rhythmic stomping as background noise, Pete finishes his cooking and makes a plate for Patrick. His nerves reignite when he prepares to go upstairs but he makes the journey anyway. 

Halfway up, as he winces at a creaking step, the sound of Patrick’s pacing stops. Pete tells himself it means nothing; still, he walks with more urgency than before.

He finds Patrick in his room, seated at his desk with a pair of headphones snug around his ears. He’s scrawling away at a piece of paper, hunched over like he’s busy. His frown is deeper than Pete’s seen it, eyes harder.

Pete can taste his own heart in his mouth, the constant thrum of fear filling his throat with a cruel beat. He steps forward softly, placing the plate down with as little noise as possible so not to bother Patrick. He doesn’t think to look at what Patrick’s working on; he knows he’ll only see meaningless scribbles, a prop put together to make Patrick appear as if he has something to work on— as if his post hadn’t declared his intentions to give up music until further notice.

Tongue covered in a sour fear and head messy from too many stuttered thoughts, Pete turns and leaves without a word. 

The soft trembles of Patrick’s breaths follow him like a stormcloud traversing the sky.

And the sob Pete hears once the door shuts is nothing short of a thunderbolt into his veins.

~ ~ ~

Pete doesn’t give into his own emotions— emotions he can’t name, feelings he won’t recognize— until he’s preparing a sleeping spot on the living room couch, staring at the grey blanket hanging limply over the cushions.

On its own, it’s nothing special— a typical fleece throw blanket fraying at its stitched edges— but Pete would recognize it anywhere. 

He’d first seen it tucked away at a gas station years ago, a quick stop made while the others stayed in the van, too proud to step inside such a suspicious establishment. It had been Pete, after all, who’d parked and stormed inside with nothing but a handful of bills they’d earned from the show they’d just finished playing at some college kid’s apartment. The other three had complained— loudly— about the unnecessary stop but Pete had ignored them.

Besides, it was Patrick’s fault they were there.

Patrick, young and quick-tempered with no will to bite back his complaints and irritations. A kid who’d packed a half dozen hats and hoodies for their first tour but still couldn’t find a way to keep warm late at night. He’d folded in on himself in the backseat, scowling at the window and cursing about the weather.

“You would think you’d want a van whose heater did more than suggest a bit of warmth,” he’d snapped, earning a glare from Joe. Pete had been driving, Andy beside him, and they shared a look as everyone grew tired of Patrick’s whining. Joe voiced his annoyance first, calling Patrick every synonym of “brat” he could think of— a number which was surprisingly low but still had Patrick looking ready to throw a punch. “I’m just saying it’s fucking cold.”

It wasn’t, not really. That night was decent, summer-kissed, and Pete would’ve rolled down the window if he wasn’t afraid of Patrick’s reaction. As it was, he was more than certain Patrick’s temper was the result of some drunken asshole pouring his drink over Patrick’s shoes but even Pete knew better than to mention that incident. Patrick was a thunderstorm— better to let it run its course and wait for the blue skies to show up after.

After a half hour of his grumbling, though, Pete had given up and pulled over.

“Really?” Joe shouted from the backseat as Pete pulled into a gas station parking lot. “You’re gonna leave us with this asshole?”

“Fuck you!” Patrick wrapped his arms around himself and no one could tell if it was the tantrum or supposed cold that had him kicking the floor of the van.

Pete didn’t deign to answer either of them, running inside and buying the first blanket he could find. The cashier had wasted time trying to sell him a twisted pair of earbuds but, eventually, Pete stormed back outside, victorious.

“Here,” he’d said, tossing the bundle of fabric through the window and into Patrick’s face. “Now, can you please shut up?”

Patrick had stopped arguing after that, a rarity in those days. More unexpectedly, he kept the blanket. Even when the band switched from a shitty van to more luxurious tour buses, even after Patrick could clearly afford any blanket he wanted… 

Even after spending a year or so away from the band, away from Pete, away from any reason to keep such sentiments close, he’s kept it.

Pete shuts his eyes. He can feel the incipient breakdown building up and he doesn’t want to give into it. Not on the first day; not on the first night.

Not because of a blanket he bought for Patrick years ago.

When Pete opens his eyes, he tears the blanket from the couch and tosses it to the floor as if every accusation he’s felt today has been written across it. He’s too drained to feel guilty as he steps over it, pushing every memory away as he curls up on the couch and tells himself not to cry.

It’s just a blanket and there are a thousand reasons for Patrick to have kept it. Still, Pete can’t help but dwell on it. He’s always tried to take care of Patrick and Patrick’s let him. Though they’re both nothing but stubborn idiots, they’ve always needed each other.

And Pete’s turned his back on that.

He falls asleep with cruel thoughts in his head, dark threats of what could have happened had he arrived a second too late.

He falls asleep believing he’s lost Patrick.

But he wakes with the blanket tucked neatly around him with no explanation for how it came to be.

~ ~ ~

Shimmering sunshine fades into icy moonlight far too quickly for Pete’s liking, an entire day over without a word or sign from Patrick. Patrick hides away in his room, leaving Pete to roam the house like the intruder he is. Someone who’s already forced his way into Patrick’s life once— an action ending them here, where he’s only repeating the process in more literal terms than before.

It feels worse now, though, when Pete steps into Patrick’s room with another plate of food, eyes casting over a pathetic lump beneath the pillows and blankets on the bed. He knows Patrick’s awake the way he knows this isn’t just another bad dream; he can feel the facts in every breath he wastes on a sigh.

He glances down at the breakfast and lunch plates he’d brought earlier. They appear picked at and some of it has been eaten but it’s not enough. Pete knows firsthand how easy it is to pretend the bitterness in the back of his mouth is a satisfying taste to fall asleep with and he shudders uncomfortably when he imagines Patrick feeling the same way.

This is ridiculous. He’s doing no good here and Patrick won’t even speak to him. Pete slams yet another dish onto Patrick’s work table. Past promises and forgotten oaths mean nothing when Patrick isn’t willing to try to help himself. Patrick’s better off on his own and Pete’s better off leaving.

“Why don’t you go?” Patrick asks, the pile of blankets shifting just enough for Pete to startle at the sight and sound. Pete doesn’t answer, too busy wondering whether he’d been speaking out loud or if Patrick still has that special ability to read his mind.

“You should eat,” He says instead, already walking towards the door. He hesitates before leaving, a thousand more words resting on his tongue, before he shakes his head and goes back downstairs. Away from the stale air of Patrick’s depression hanging in that darkened room and away from the contagious feelings of dejection and resignation.

Pete won’t give up. It takes a few moments to convince himself but he convinces himself that Patrick’s words are a form of victory— they were harsh but at least they were something— and he finds the calm required to sit back on the couch and rest his head against the cushions. He stays that way for an uncomfortable amount of time, determined to outlast the universe in the contest of who’ll stay around for Patrick longer. Hours pass and it’s a deadly shade of dark outside when Pete’s finally broken from his self-imposed spell by the shrieking of his phone. With a scowl, he pulls himself forward and snatches it from the coffee table, nearly upending a small box of CDs in his haste.

“Hello?” He asks, the word a sharp snap into the speaker. Silence crackles into his ear before his mom’s voice fills the void.

“Nice speaking with you, too, Peter,” she says, a sigh coating her words. “Have you seen any of my messages?”

“Not really,” Pete says, falling back against the couch and rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been busy, I guess, and haven’t had the chance to check my phone.”

“That’s for sure,” his mom says loud enough Pete has to pull the phone from his ear. “I’ve sent you so many texts about… Well, about Patrick. The media’s having a frenzy about him, you know, making all these speculations about that post and what it could mean and, well, no one’s gotten in contact with  _ him,  _ either. I thought that if anyone could help it’d be you! But here you are, all radio silence when your best friend needs you. I hope you have a good explanation for it.”

Pete, having given up on interrupting his mom years ago, answers her with shut eyes. “Yeah, I, uh, actually, I do.”

“Oh, do you?” It’s clear she doesn’t believe him and Pete can’t blame her. “And what would that be?”

“I’m, uh…” Pete doesn’t know why these words are so difficult or why he feels faint traces of shame in each syllable. He swallows, shutting his eyes tighter. “I’m at Patrick’s.”

His mom takes a moment to respond, the sound of her breathing the only sign she hadn’t hung up. At last, she takes a deep breath and says, “oh.”

Pete laughs, relaxing into it and opening his eyes once more. “Yeah. Oh.”

“That’s… That’s good, I guess. I would have hoped you’d called him before trying that but I know you and, well, I suppose you marched right over. And I assume he’s alright, then?” 

Pete can’t help but smile at his mom’s tone, the concern and need for reassurance. Ever since Pete took Patrick over to meet her years ago she’s become a bit of a second mom to him. Cooking his favorite snacks for band practices, collecting interviews, inviting him over to family dinners and holidays— if there was a way to treat Patrick like a son, she did it. Patrick never said anything about it, not even when Pete— only half-joking— brought it up. Still, by the cherry red of his cheeks when she gushed about a new song or how he always brought back a souvenir from tour just for her, Pete knew he considered her to be family, as well.

The warmth of such memories fades and Pete wonders if Patrick’s missed that familiarity. He wonders if he’s to blame for it falling apart.

“I won’t say he’s doing well but he’s better than you’d expect, considering what he wrote,” Pete says, wincing at his own words. “I’m… I’m trying to take care of him but I’ve only been here a little over a day. It’ll… I think it’ll take a while but he’ll be fine. I know he’ll be fine.”

“I know.” His mom pauses, laughing softly with her next sentence. “It seems you’re always taking care of that boy.”

Boy. It’s a strange word for Pete now, a foreign concept to pin on the broken man he’d encountered earlier. Patrick’s not a mere boy, no matter how long Pete’s called him one. He’s… He’s different, now. Changed, and it may not be for the better.

He doesn’t say any of this, though, shrugging and staring at the blank wall to his side. Empty and bare, so unlike anything Patrick would really enjoy. “I don’t know about that. I’ve always felt like it was the other way around.”

“You’ve told me that before but I’ve never really believed it. He’s so young, Pete, I can’t… I can’t imagine him being as stable as you’ve always said.” She drops her voice, whispering as if to trade secrets in some unknown conclave. “You know, I… I hate to say it but I can’t help but question if that has some part in all this. His age, I mean. I read his post and it’s horrible, all of it, but is there any possibility of an overreaction? Immature interpretations of… of some unideal situations?” 

Pete sits up straighter, mouth twisting into a scowl of its own accord.

“If you think for a second that Patrick would be lying about any of this, then you don’t know a damn thing about him,” Pete snaps, hearing only offense in his mom’s words. Her insinuations rip into him, tearing his soul like a Christmas present with nothing but coal within. “He’s hurting, mom, and he needs a friend. He needs someone who will understand, not someone asking about the validity of his emotions!”

“What he needs,” his mom says, maddeningly calm, “is someone to take care of him, if he’s as bad as you seem to believe he is.”

“I  _ am  _ taking care of him! Are you even listening to—”

“You think you’re taking care of him but I don’t think you know how,” his mom says, stilling all Pete’s protests in his throat. “You’re taking on a terribly responsible role and if you don’t take it seriously or do it right you’ll regret ever going to Patrick before any of this is over.”

Pete’s hand tightens on the phone convulsively, his voice and words just as desperate when he speaks.

“That’s how I know I won’t let him down.”

~ ~ ~

The sun disappears from the sky the next day, darkened horizons and thundering rain taking the place of its comforting glow. Pete watches the storm clouds roll in from his place on the couch, eyes wide from a night of no sleep. The sky’s an upsetting array of purple and pinks against the more dismal greys and it’s almost like watching a movie as dawn becomes morning and morning tries its best to appear as day. By the time Pete should be making breakfast the weather’s taken a turn for the worst and Pete’s left frowning at the threats of hail and howling wind.

Pete stands and turns his back, limbs stiff after sitting so still for so long. His mom’s words had played through his mind all night, asking him if he’s sure he should be here and wondering if any of this is a good idea.

He still doesn’t have an answer to either question. He only has his feelings and, while unpredictable, he’s always liked to pretend they could be reliable.

It makes sense, then, to hurry outside and into his car. It makes sense to drive the short distance— short but still too long, long but not enough— back to the house he has out here. It’s a house he hasn’t seen in months, too afraid of the proximity it holds to Patrick’s home. He sits in his driveway and waits, forehead on the steering wheel and eyes shut too tightly for him to fall into the temptation of sleep.

Wait. Think. Consider the questions as the downpour around him plays the part of an emotional soundtrack. Plan his next moves, his next words, and decide whether or not he should return to Patrick.

It doesn’t take more than a moment to commit to what feels right.

Pete’s never been the most prudent person so, when he’d raced off to Patrick’s, he hadn’t brought any change of clothes or overnight necessities. He’d been fine yesterday, too afraid to confront Patrick to think of how long he’d been wearing these jeans, but he’s sure such a mindset can’t last forever. He can’t expect Patrick to take care of himself when Pete refuses to do the same.

The first thing Pete does upon stepping foot inside his house is pack a duffel bag— stuffing it with as many shirts and pants as possible, packing the same way he did the first few years Fall Out Boy went on tour. No thought for how his outfits would look or if he had enough, just knowing that he wanted to be done and out on the road again. He fits a good portion of his closet into the bag and, satisfied, nods to himself before going to take a shower.

The water on his skin both mimics and teases the rain outside, softer sprays of warmth versus the cool sheets of ice. They both beat to the same pattern of Pete’s thoughts, though. They both dare to drown him in the kind of silence only horrible fantasies can fill.

He… He is doing the right thing by going to Patrick, right? He’s not intruding or forcing any sort of therapy on him, the way so many others have tried to do to Pete before. He’s concerned and there’s nothing wrong with running to an old friend in their time of need.

And Patrick does need him. That post was a cry for help, whether or not Patrick was aware of it. Pete’s not as foolish as he used to be— he won’t forsake Patrick again.

He shuts his eyes against the water for no other reason than to be in the dark, the sound of his own breaths and the feeling of rain on his skin the only experiences he needs as he thinks. His brightest ideas appear in dark rooms and Pete’s more than willing to create his own version of night if it will help him find a cure for Patrick’s pain.

But pain, he knows, is just thinking that you’ve cried these same tears before. It’s thinking that every thought is the same as the last and that every step towards recovery is nothing more than turning around and looking back at how nothing seems to have changed.

Pain is deja vu.

He feels as if he’s floating when he finally shuts off the water, full of the kind of thoughts he couldn’t ever wash away. He dresses without further contemplation, shaking water droplets from his hair and watching them land on the mirror, like rain on a window. 

A window with the most dismal stranger staring in. Always on the outside, always left with no peaceful way to break through to the real world. 

_ No more depressing thoughts,  _ Pete reminds himself, turning away.  _ I’m not the one who needs fixing this time. _

It’s raining even harder than before when he finally gets everything packed into his car, feeling emptier than he had when he’d entered the house. He shudders as he leaves the driveway, turmoil twisting in his mind and guts like a curse taking root deep inside his fears.

His hair’s still a bit damp as he pulls back into Patrick’s driveway, the dark windows suggesting Patrick’s yet to leave his bed. Pete parks with a sigh, taking a moment to stare at his own reflection in the rearview mirror. Stained by the shadows of raindrops, he looks the way he did ten or so years ago, driving up to Patrick’s parents’ house, ready to whisk their son off into the sunset of fame and fortune.

Now, Patrick’s the only one in this house and Pete will settle for a sunrise. Warmth and beauty— none of which greet him when he steps inside.

As the front door clicks closed behind him, the first thing Pete’s aware of is the chill. He drops his bag and wanders further inside, wondering distantly if Patrick had opened a window or if Pete just hadn’t realized one had been open all along. 

It’s a feeble breeze in the house, cold and forbidding, and it leads Pete straight to Patrick’s room. He hesitates at the door, hands shaking with confusion over whether or not to knock before he gives up on etiquette and gingerly lets himself inside. 

“Patrick?” He asks, as gentle as the rain is cruel. “Patrick, are you—”

But Patrick isn’t anywhere to be seen. Signs of him litter the room, the unmade bed and pile of dirty dishes, but his absence still sends Pete’s heart into a fit. He goes to call Patrick’s name once more but feels every mental process freeze when his eyes land on the open balcony door.

Pete doesn’t remember running to it, doesn’t remember cursing or tripping across the floor in his haste, but he does remember the scathing panic filling his veins at the sight. Vows shatter and pierce his skin, heart in his throat, as he stops before the balcony, terrified of what he may see.

None of his nightmares come to life and he’s only greeted with the sight of Patrick in the rain. He’s still in his pajamas, batman logos sticking to his skin as water batters against him, the rain never once giving up its fury no matter who stands in the way. Patrick’s back is to the door but he turns when Pete says his name, eyes as compelling and dark as rotting roses.

Pete steps forward and those same garden eyes widen. 

“Stop!” Patrick cries out, hands flying in front of him as if to keep Pete in place. Tragedy floods his words, hail and wind and rain in his trembling voice. “Stay… Stay put, okay? You’re… You’re already wet and you’ll only get sick if you come out here now.” The wind howls, screeches, and Patrick looks at the sky as if understanding he’s run out of time to speak. “I don’t want you getting sick.”

Pete feels a fleeting twinge of guilt in the way he stares slack-jawed at Patrick’s determined sorrow, Patrick turning away once more with another plea for Pete not to follow him— for Pete not to get sick. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere, a terrible symbolism Pete would rather not think about now. 

So he doesn’t think of what Patrick means; he focuses on how Patrick sounds, and Patrick sounds torn apart. 

He sounds the way Pete might have sounded if he’d begged Patrick to stay instead of letting him disappear in a flurry of forgotten words and broken oaths.

Patrick doesn’t notice when Pete steps outside but he does turn back around, eyes widening because Pete’s already halfway to him. He tries to protest, shouting out about how stupid this is, but Pete pays him no mind. He’s been here before and he knows— he knows— what Patrick needs. Warmth and comfort and someone to hold him. It’d be better if he could do this inside but Pete knows something else, too.

He knows having someone dive into the cold beside you is better than having someone stand in the warmth with weak words about how much better their comfort is. Persuasions only sound like lies when there’s no proof the other person wants to understand.

He and Patrick stare at each, silent but for the rain, and Pete can’t tell if raindrops or tears line Patrick’s eyes. He reaches for him anyway, surprised when Patrick refuses to move away. Pete places a hand on Patrick’s cheek, wiping away the rain and tears, and wonders if Patrick’s trembling is from sobs or cold.

“I don’t want you to get sick,” Patrick says again, sounding more distraught than before. He blinks, the rain working a somnolent spell over him as he shakes his head and repeats himself in a tired tone. “I didn’t want you to get sick.”

“Oh,” Pete says, knowing there’s nothing more to say. “Oh, Patrick.”

When he pulls Patrick into his chest, cradling him in his arms and holding him for the first time in years, Patrick goes into it willingly. Pete shuts his eyes and invokes the spring shower’s vows— a time of change, he reminds himself, and a promise for something new— against the shudders traversing Patrick’s body without remorse.

The rain ignores him and only seems to pound in harsher waves than before. Pete bites his lip and prepares to ask Patrick to come inside.

But Patrick begins to move, eyes shut, and Pete waits with furrowed brows as Patrick wraps his arms around Pete. It’s awkward and stiff and he’s still cold but Pete can’t help smiling. He can’t help pretending he feels warm.

And he waits in the storm a while longer, he and Patrick holding each other through it all.

~ ~ ~

Morning arrives with the shriek of birds outside Patrick’s window. Morning arrives with Pete curled up on Patrick’s bed, arm draped across the smaller body, his mind toying with memories of being told not to leave and memories of someone begging him to stay for just one night. 

Morning arrives with Pete opening his eyes and waking to the sight of Patrick curled up beside him. He’s still in those pajamas from the night before, the scent of rain and wind sticking to each thread of cotton because neither Pete or Patrick was willing to do more than sleep when they finally stumbled back inside— wordless, thoughtless, careless and reckless.

But they were far from motionless. Patrick had trembled from the cold throughout the night, the shudders growing more and more violent until, with every blanket tucked up to his chin, Pete had rested an arm along Patrick’s side; Patrick had stiffened but he didn’t move away, allowing Pete to rub warmth back into his skin with the gentlest of touches.

Pete doesn’t remember falling asleep but he does remember whispering “good night” and “don’t worry, I’ll stay” as Patrick drifted off into dreams less tumultuous than his own life. Pete had stayed awake a bit longer than he should have, watching Patrick for signs of more distress than he had shown thus far. The dark shadows beneath his eyes and the hollows of his sunken cheeks spoke of more damage than Pete had been willing to see.

This morning, though, it’s Patrick with his eyes on Pete, hair dusted gold and eyes as blue as the waking dawn framing him. He’s silent, propped up on an elbow with a curious expression on his face. Something fond but not quite; something frightened but a bit more than just that.

Pete doesn’t think of emotions or feelings as he looks back into those pools of sky and eternity, twisting his own lips into a soft smile in hopes Patrick will return it. Patrick merely blinks, tired, and some of that emotion from before fades— he’s nothing more than exhaustion as his eyelids slip halfway down.

It’s a feeling Pete relates to, eyes roaming the pale blue of the dawn’s sky. He and Patrick hadn’t fallen into bed until the worst of the storm began, sometime around 2am as hail pecked at their skin with all the fury of a lover who’s been denied. Pete knows neither of them received the sleep they need but, if Patrick’s furrowed brows mean anything, it’s just as unlikely that either of them will close their eyes once more to retrieve the hours of rest they’ve lost.

Still, Pete’s soul is calmed and Patrick’s looking better than he had before, those angry bruises beneath his eyes dulled down to soft greys and mere whispers of wide-eyed nights. Crisp early morning air blows in from the balcony door, left open a crack, and the slight chill leaves healthy red blossoms on Patrick’s cheeks and nose, the tips of his ears taking on the color when he brushes fearful fingers across Pete’s cheek.

“Why are you here, Pete?” He asks, voice softer than the gentle breeze filling their lungs. Pete keeps his own words safe in his chest, the answer not one he’s certain is able to be spoken aloud. “What are you wanting from this?”

This, at least, is something Pete can say. “I just want you to be alright.” 

If fear laces his words, if hesitation sits between each breath, if panic is the punctuation and guilt the grammar, neither of them say anything about it.

Patrick sighs at him but, for once since Pete’s arrival, it doesn’t sound entirely unfriendly. 

“Is that what you’re expecting?” He asks, eyes down at the sheets even as his fingers trace shapes— letters and words, Pete imagines— into Pete’s skin. “And what does that look like to you?”

Pete swallows, his voice low enough to keep this fragile spell of open hearts and secrets intact. “I don’t know. But I know I have to—”

“What? Fix me?” At this, Patrick pulls his hand away, letting it drop to circle in the satin soft sheets beneath and between them. He’s always preferred the softer materials, the blankets that feel more like a brush of air than a piece of fabric. It makes that gas station memento so much more unusual, so much more out of character. Though, as Patrick speaks, Pete finds himself grasping for pieces of who that character is supposed to be. “I know it’s what you’re thinking— that I’m broken or damaged, somehow. And, well, I guess, I’d say you’re right in some regards. The hiatus did break me a little. I know I called for it and I was the one to walk away but… it broke me.”

Pete leans forward, words drying up without knowing why; they spiral into his stomach with a sour taste. 

“It wasn’t… It wasn’t all at once,” Patrick continues, his eyes so averted they’re nearly hidden. “It was just the build-up of all the hate and meanness and… and… and loneliness, I suppose. I got my first glimpse of the real world on my own and it hated me.” He pauses here, finally looking over to Pete with eyes holding the barest of emotion. “I showed the best version of myself to the world and it hated me. So I don’t know what you’re trying to fix here. I don’t know if you want the… the old Patrick back but… I think that’s impossible. I don’t think I can go back to how I was. I can’t. I won’t. I  _ can’t. _ ”

Pete pushes himself to a seated position, staring down at Patrick as they both fumble for any words meant to make more sense then they’re feeling now; instead, all sounds sink with a sad breath, Patrick’s sighs the only symphony he’s composing today.

“I don’t think I can be the same,” Patrick says, a finality in his tone like the last note on an album.

Pete’s heart falls with all of his words.

There’s a sort of melodrama in Patrick’s statement but the sound of desolation is worse than defeat and the silence of sadness is greater than that of solitude.

Pete reaches for Patrick, pulling back at the last second.

No. He won’t be the same. He won’t be naive to cruel words and he won’t let Pete toss love notes at him without explanation. He won’t be so ready to put himself out there for all the world to see and he sure as hell won’t be ready to believe that any of those insults were lies.

But Pete had been alone, too. He’d been married and divorced before he had the chance to settle into the idea of a forever love. He’d been buried in obscurity and blinded by paparazzi lights looking for another  _ where are they now  _ article to write. He’d been hurt, wounded and left to his own inkspill skin and thoughts, drowning in the taste of too many broken-hearted words. He snapped every pen he owned, tossed every pencil left, and tore his hands on pages of blank notebook paper.

He won’t be the same, either, and he wonders if any of this could have been avoided if only he’d been near the one person who cared enough to hold these broken pieces together.

“I’m sorry, I should have been here,” he says, half for himself and half for Patrick.

Patrick turns his head, blonde and gold falling across his eyes. “I didn’t want you here.” There’s no malice in his words but he doesn’t make an effort to sound kind, either.

“Then I should have been here sooner,” Pete says, still as insistent as before. He rubs his eyes and looks out the window, blue shades becoming white lights as the sun begins the day anew. “Maybe things would have been different.”

Patrick laughs, so light and low Pete’s uncertain whether or not it’s merely a trick played by his own hopes to hear it again.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be here at all.” Patrick lets his face drop into the crook of his elbow, half-hidden by the pillow. A corner of his lips peek out from the side and Pete imagines it’s smiling, no matter how wryly. It wavers, though, and, a second later, it’s gone. Patrick looks back up at him, blinking with his eyebrows creased together as if blaming Pete for existing next to him. “I didn’t want you here, you know. You shouldn’t have to… you shouldn’t have to see any of this. I was prepared to never see you again after leaving that last show.”

Though Pete already knew this, hearing the words aloud strikes him between the ribs— just in time to throw off his heart’s already unsteady rhythm. It constricts and contracts at uneven increments, a formidable amount of pain standing against any response he might find in his mind.

“Patrick,” he chokes out anyway, the words as forced as the blood pumping through his body only at the will of his heart. Always his heart in charge, always his heart leading the decisions that fit his common sense worst. “Patrick, I—”

Patrick rolls out of bed before Pete has a chance to finish, straightening out his shirt and facing the balcony door. He pulls it open as Pete watches, words dying and reviving on his tongue as Patrick focuses his deadened eyes on the dim lights of the sky and remaining stars outside.

“What are you doing?” Pete asks. “What are you thinking?”

“I want to go for a walk.” Patrick’s voice is thoughtless, contemplating the day’s activities without recognizing the damages left behind him. “It’s still dark— a bit, at least— and no one else will be out yet. I don’t wake up early often but I do like how the morning looks after a night of rain. It’s… It’s still. Calm. The only time the world seems content to stay in one spot.”

“You… You want to go for a walk,” Pete finally says, still staring at Patrick’s back. Patrick nods jerkily, tossing a bitter look over his shoulder towards Pete.

“Fresh air’s good for you, right? If you want me to get better, I don’t imagine you’d have any problem with me going for a quick walk around the neighborhood,” he says. A dare curls itself around each letter, a challenge in his very breath as his eyes meet Pete’s.

As Pete recognizes the careless gaze, his hands twitch with the sudden need to pull Patrick back from the balcony door.

“Yeah,” he says, hiding his hands in the bedsheets. “Yeah, but I’m going with you.”

Patrick scoffs. Somehow, the sound is both a defense and reassurance. “Of course.”

It doesn’t take long for either of them to dress for the day, Pete opting for a hoodie and jeans while Patrick merely changes into another pair of sweats. With the clothes hanging off his too-small frame and his hair barely brushed, the strands sticking to his forehead in a messy group of tangles, it’s a look only he could pull off. Still, as he stands by the front door with an eyebrow raised and arms crossed, Pete can’t help but want to reach for a hat— almost as much as he wishes he could reach for Patrick’s hand.

They don’t speak as they walk. Patrick leads, the soft susurrations of post-storm winds guiding them into a steady silence. They carry on this way as they round the block and walk past strangers’ driveways, side-by-side with nothing but their hands between them.

Nothing but a million unsaid words around them.

“The quiet is nice,” Pete remarks as they trek deeper into the neighborhood. It’s not a lie but it’s also not something he’d say on his own, always the one crashing and collapsing with an orchestra of his own tattered words strewn into the neverending stillness his own loneliness takes the shape of.

Though years have passed and things have changed— for better or for worse— Patrick still calls him on the out of character quote. “You’ve always said you don’t understand silence.”

“I don’t understand it but I’ve been dealing with it,” Pete says, struggling to keep up with Patrick’s rushed pace. “It’s been quiet, in my head, since you— since the hiatus began, I guess. My words seem all dried up now. I mean, they’re there? But they’re not loud enough for me to write down.” He doesn’t waste time asking if he makes any sense— it’s not something he’s ever had to worry about around Patrick.

Except for now. Patrick looks at him with another unreadable expression, the lingering mist obscuring his eyes and distorting the emotion into something that has Pete’s stomach twisting in uncomfortable ways. 

When his eyes meet Pete’s, he looks back over at the sidewalk, managing to walk even quicker than before. “Don’t expect me to be your muse again.” 

He says it with such surety that Pete has no choice but to freeze, muscles locked and thoughts cold.

Pete wants to cry out that he wasn’t falling into those habits, that he saw Patrick as more than an untouchable golden boy— a source of inspiration, a well of words and ideas. He wants to scream that he wouldn’t— not when Patrick’s so fragile, so lost, so alone. He wants to shout that he never did any of this— not now, not then.

He wants to say all these things and more. But he bites his tongue instead, knowing all too well that each statement would be nothing but a lie.

Patrick looks back at him, a few feet ahead, with an eyebrow raised and his lips threatening to quirk up into that smile that’s been lost for too long. He doesn’t speak but Pete recognizes the expression:  _ Are you coming? _

And Pete knows Patrick’s not his muse— knows Patrick’s not his, at all— but now the thought’s been put into his mind and, like the storm from last night, he’s assailed by the torrent of words that flood through him at the sight of Patrick. 

Standing with his back to a grey-blue sky, his eyes echoing the shade with the sun playing along in the golden strands of his hair, he looks like a snapshot of a thunderstorm, too small to be filled with the amount of lightning no doubt coursing through his veins. With his lips twisted in confusion, his eyes still wide and eyebrows raised, he’s almost… Not a story, yet— not even a song. But he’s a verse. He’s the beginning of something that wants to stop Pete’s heart.

As these thoughts multiply, Pete does his best to shake them away.

“You know,” Patrick says, resting a hand on his hip and doing a far better job at chasing away Pete’s musings, “you look quite nice in this weather. It suits your gloominess.”

And though Patrick isn’t his, Pete still smiles at the tone manufactured to deal with his antics. Fond, exasperated, seeing more than he’s willing to say. 

Patrick isn’t his muse but, Pete knows, Patrick can still be loved. 

Pete doesn’t reply, arms flailing awkwardly as he runs to catch up with Patrick. Patrick begins to smile but turns before Pete has the chance to see it.

It doesn’t matter, though. Pete still knows it’s there.

~ ~ ~

They don’t speak for the rest of the walk, Pete listening only to sound of Patrick’s breaths hissing in, out, in again. The world is just as Patrick said— still. The collection of dark storm clouds hanging on the edge of the horizon threaten another storm later and Pete nudges Patrick, nodding towards them as they circle back towards his house.

“Do you often go for walks or was it a random whim?” Pete asks once they’ve arrived at the familiar driveway, Pete’s car still dripping from the rain and dew of morning mist. “I don’t remember you liking them before.”

“Yeah, well. Things change.” Patrick doesn’t offer further explanation and Pete doesn’t ask for it, following him into the chilled home. He glances over his shoulder into the empty streets once more, taking in the world before it’s had the chance to truly awake. For a breath, he can pretend that he and Patrick are alone here, the only ones. It’s a comfortable daydream, one he’s had many times before, and he holds onto the pretense as the door shuts and he slips out of his shoes. 

Their shared solitude is absolute.

Patrick mutters to himself as he walks through the house, the sound only serving to deepen the fantasy Pete’s constructed. A world of their own, the way it’s always been— the way it’s always supposed to be. He watches Patrick pull a hoodie on over his t-shirt, oversized and drowning him in soft fabrics. He’s small and it’s something Pete’s known for a while; not even he’s been immune to the intrigue of Patrick’s shift. Long before he dreamt of arriving, Pete had blonde hair imprinted on his mind. He had nightmares of skeletons and insults he should have hidden Patrick from. He had dreams that made him question if he ever really knew Patrick at all, in the most literal of senses.

As Patrick messes with the thermostat, cursing about the folly of leaving his balcony open, Pete can’t help but speak. “Do you regret it?”

Patrick pauses, going stiff but not turning around. “Regret what?” He says it as if already knows the answer but Pete plays along anyway.

“The band.” He can see the moment Patrick closes himself off, eyes closing like a shutter and mouth screwing up.

“The band. You’re still going to need to be a bit more specific than just ‘the band’. Do you mean the entire thing or—”

“The ending,” Pete says. Patrick turns and leans back against the wall, lips pressed together and eyes opening so he can glare at the floor. “Do you regret that it ended?”

Patrick takes his time responding and, for a while, Pete’s willing to accept the changes in his expression as answer enough. His bitter mask slips enough for a sad smile to take its place— a smile Pete knows like the sun, warming him through and through.

“I don’t know,” he says, at last, startling Pete with the late timing. Patrick’s hands run alongside his arms and Pete sees him shivering. From the cold, he tells himself, though the air has begun to grow warm. “I want to regret it but I don’t think I can. I want to be as upset as everybody expects but I just can’t. The band was good and the break sucked but… I don’t think I want to see where things would have ended if we stayed together. I certainly don’t want to see how I would have ended up, heartbroken as I was near the end.” His voice grows smaller with each sentence and he presses back against the wall, cowering away from his own words. “I want to… Well, what I want doesn’t matter. It happened so there’s no use thinking of what might have been. I am sorry, though.”

“Sorry?” Pete’s eyebrows lift, mind aching from its attempts to keep up with Patrick’s rambling tone. “What? You don’t think is all your fault, do you? You can’t thi—”

“Oh, for god’s sake, don’t bother lying,” Patrick huffs, face red as he turns his head to the side. “You all blamed me for it— Look, I know you did, you all did, so save your breath. It was a stupid move… A selfish move that I made without thinking of anyone else. So, yeah, I don’t regret the break but I am sorry that it hurt all of you in the process. I never wanted you to get hurt.”

The words echo Pete’s own guilt-drenched thoughts, the fear that his actions brought this pain to them. They sound wrong on Patrick’s lips, sour and twisted with an apology he shouldn’t have to give. Patrick left but Pete was the one who let him— Pete was the one who took away every other choice.

And Patrick’s blaming himself for that? It’s enough for the warmth of Pete’s blood to burn.

“Really? Are you kidding me?” It’s an old reaction to Patrick’s self-deprecation, the incredulity that someone so wonderful can be so blind. He storms forward until there’s nothing but a breath between them, Patrick’s eyes averted while Pete’s gaze scorched. Patrick’s jaw twitches as he clenches his teeth together, another tell-tale sign of a less than favorable Patrick reaction, but Pete ignores it the way he always does. “Don’t tell me this is what started this whole moping attitude. No one blames you and… and it’s not your fault anyone got hurt. For fuck’s sake, you have no right to be so goddamn depressed over some self-inflicted bullshit like—”

A hand fists in Pete’s shirt. The world spins and, suddenly, Pete’s shoved back against the wall, Patrick leaning towards him with the same fire he breathed when he walked out all those years ago. He holds him in place with his hand still wrapped in the fabric of Pete’s shirt, stronger than he appears while wearing such a thin and feeble frame.

“You have no idea,” he says, close enough Pete feels the warmth of his breath against his cheek. Rage pools around him, dripping onto the floor and infecting the air like electricity forewarning of an oncoming storm. Though he’s smaller than Pete’s ever seen him, his presence is terrifying; his aura’s a blinding warning sign. “Without you… Without the band. You have no idea how my life has been. You didn’t reach out— not once. You didn’t call or respond to any of my fucking messages and you weren’t the only one, Pete. Everyone left so how am I supposed to interpret that? When the only people talking to me are my fucking family and the haters? It’s been hell trying to understand where everyone went so don’t you dare tell me I don’t get to feel this way.”

Around them, the anger grows close and near; then, as Pete’s breaths become heavy, he recognizes the violent light in Patrick’s eyes. He’s seen it before in the studio and backstage, before fights and after them. But there’s something more behind that gleam, something broken and shattered and screaming to be seen.

Pete would give anything to know what Patrick means when he talks of how he feels.

Outside, the light has failed and shadows take the place of the sky, another thunderstorm making its way into the scene. It only seems fitting that this would be the background to the sight of Patrick raising a trembling fist.

He doesn’t throw a punch but Pete captures his hand anyway, holding it in an equally unsteady grasp. He meets the hurricane of Patrick’s eyes, begging for the clouds within the blue to open up and show him all he hadn’t seen before.

But Patrick pulls away before either of them have a chance to see the other, tearing back from Pete. Ragged breaths rip through his throat and the hoarse sound follows him as he turns to run— a sight Pete’s grown too familiar with.

As thunder crackles across the sky, Pete slides down the wall and buries his face in his hands. Keeping himself together, in general, is a task all on its own; putting Patrick in the mix should have warned him of this disaster. He can clean him and feed him and take him on walks but, despite how he’s treated him in the past, Patrick’s not a pet. He needs more than what Pete can give.

Pete’s the only one here, though— a fact he can’t help but hate. Where are the others who must have read that post? Where is the care Patrick deserves?

Pete can’t provide it in the way Patrick needs but he, at least, can try.

Ordering a pizza in this weather is a dick move but it brings a sense of comfort Pete hasn’t felt in a while, his voice low as he recites the plain large cheese he wants. It’s not the usual but an irrational piece of his mind fears Patrick’s reaction if his order hits too close to home.

The pizza thing is a tradition neither of them meant to create, a piece of history they never shared with fans or press. Too many people expect the stories of Pete crashing at Patrick’s at midnight whenever his mood took a turn for the worst, curled up on his couch so they could watch old movies and pretend problems don’t exist.

But Pete has more memories of Patrick knocking on his door in the middle of the day, shrugging through the pain glinting like tears in his eyes. He can remember the way it would take weeks to get Patrick to admit whatever insecurity was eating at him now, the review he’d read or ex who’d cheated. It took time Pete was surprised to find himself giving. It took conversations that eerily echoed the ones Pete shared with his therapist and mirror.

And it always started with the biggest pizza order they could make. More often than not, Patrick would worry himself into days without a proper meal and, at the time, neither really knew how to cook. So Pete would sit Patrick down on his couch, usually with a beer in his hand, and then march off to order them enough pizza to last the rest of the week. Patrick would pretend to hate it but, as Pete so often told him, there’s nothing pizza can’t fix.

It’s a tradition they made years ago and Pete doesn’t know what he’ll do if Patrick’s decided to turn his back on this as well— as stupid as pizza conversations may seem.

When the pizza arrives, the delivery boy soaked and glowering, Pete tries to convince himself he’s confident about this. He doesn’t bother with plates or napkins, holding the warm box carefully in his hands as he walks to Patrick’s room. He knocks softly and the sound behind the door tells him Patrick’s awake, frustrated sighs interrupting a small amount of humming. 

Patrick doesn’t open the door but Pete goes in anyway.

He’s not surprised to see Patrick lying in the middle of the room, staring at the ceiling with his knees bent, feet pressed flat to the ground. He glances over at Pete, drops his eyes towards the pizza box in his hand, and raises an eyebrow. 

Pete parts his lips to say something but decides against it, sitting beside Patrick with the pizza box between them. It takes longer than it should for Patrick to join him, silently stewing in his mind as Pete makes his way through two and a half slices. When Patrick finally forces himself up, huffing and deliberately avoiding Pete’s gaze, he does so with red cheeks and tense hands. He seems almost ashamed as he reaches into the box for a slice but Pete smiles. As far as peace offerings go, pizza’s always been a favorite.

It’s stupid and quiet for a while, a strange sort of dreamless sleep they share until the sun peeks in through the window and clouds. As if waking from such a dream, Pete blinks and realizes how little he’s accomplished. He’s learned nothing of Patrick’s emotions, nothing of his time alone. All he’s done is waste money on junk food and sat silently in Patrick’s room. The box empty and his mind full, Pete grabs the trash and stands to leave. 

But then Patrick’s hand is around his wrist, fingers cool and grip tight. Pete falls back to the ground, caught off-guard as Patrick stares at nothing. Pete’s almost forgotten how Patrick’s touch could feel but he’s overcome with it as he watches Patrick’s twitching expressions, sparks washing over him when Patrick digs his fingers in deeper. It’s a familiar and favorite feeling; the calluses on his palm press into Pete’s skin, every muscle and tendon something Pete hadn’t known he’d missed so greatly.

“Stay,” Patrick whispers. “Please.”

And Pete does.

~ ~ ~

Pete doesn’t leave Patrick’s room until the sky’s gone dark and the sun has hidden once more. They speak of meaningless things, banter and jokes and recollections of times before their argument. It’s nothing Pete had expected but he’s learned to accept such things. When the stars shine in through the blinds, Patrick’s looks grow wary and he bites his lip as he glances at the bed. Though Pete had shared it with him the night before, he can sense the uncomfortable aura hanging around Patrick as he waits for that awkward expression to leave his face.

“I’ll go to the guest bedroom,” Pete says. Patrick frowns but some of his tensions fade.

“Don’t be stupid,” he says. “Just… Oh, come on up here, won’t you? You’ve never had a problem with it before.”

No, Pete hasn’t, but it still feels wrong when he lies down next to Patrick, facing each other and neither tucking themselves beneath the sheets.

They talk, they laugh, they joke.

Patrick falls asleep first and Pete sneaks out of the bed, the way he’d planned on doing from the start. His gaze lingers on Patrick as he tucks the blankets up to his shoulders, arranging his head and neck into a more comfortable position. He sniffles softly in his sleep and, once Pete’s verified there are no tears or impending sobs, Pete makes a note to keep an eye on any cold illnesses the rain might have brought. 

He could stay, he thinks as he walks slowly towards Patrick’s door. He could spend another night here, another week or month. Every night, he can grow a bit closer, a bit fonder, until Patrick’s faced with the fact that people do care.

Until Pete’s proven all of Patrick’s past accusations of love and denial true.

It’s the last point that has him slipping outside, trying to decide which bedroom to claim as his own while he’s here. With his sleeping options for the night copious and reasonably more comfortable than the couch he’d used the first time, Pete finds himself tossing his belongings into the bedroom nearest Patrick’s— not decided upon as a guest bedroom but, rather, Pete recalls, the same one he would find himself falling into each time he’d arrived at Patrick’s home drunk and whiny.

Perhaps it’s these memories that have Pete’s stomach curling in on itself, bright flares of shame shooting through his bloodstream as he changes into sweats and leaves the room once more. 

He can sleep later when the needles of confusion have dulled enough for him to accept them as little more than annoyance. He finds comfort in wandering Patrick’s home, cleaning as he goes— a mindless activity he’s picked up since the hiatus began, a small way to keep his life somewhat together. It’s not something he ever ponders on for long, folding blankets and putting away dishes, but he does know it feels out of place. He’d expect such a strange habit from someone more venerable than this— someone like Patrick.

Pete’s thoughtless work leads him through the living room where he arranges the couch cushions and laments the fact he can’t vacuum while Patrick’s sleeping. As it is, he finds himself picking up larger crumbs by hand, seated on the floor because this, at least, is something to do.

It’s when he reaches beneath the couch that his plans for the night change.

His fingers brush a cool, smooth surface and he frowns, dropping his pile of trash onto the floor as he frees Patrick’s laptop from its hiding place. The light on the side blinks red and he stands, still frowning as he searches for the charger. He plugs it in once he’s reached the kitchen and that should be the end. He should go back to his mundane cleaning, his distraction from daily life.

But the laptop had been hidden, tucked beneath the couch Pete had been sleeping on, and he’s never been good at resisting temptation.

This isn’t the same computer Patrick used to have when the band was together, the same machine where he constructed songs and sounds for the lyrics Pete commended to his care. This one’s newer, fresher, cleaner and Pete feels sick at the sight.

This is the same laptop he must have used to type out that horrible post.

This is where Patrick wrote those terrifying words, those threats of leaving with no intent to return. It’s where he fell apart, strands unraveling with each cruel review he read on this device. It’s where he must have seen Pete’s emails, his desperation to know that Patrick was okay despite what he had written. 

It’s the place where he wholly disappeared. No more posts on social sites, no more emails or correspondence. No more pretense at being okay, just a letter about how the universe had implored him to leave.

Pete opens the laptop without thinking, greeted with a small amount of shock when he sees the background picture— an outtake from a photo shoot years ago, the band laughing with arms slung around each other, all dressed in some silly suits. It’s a fond memory and Pete would be smiling, too, if the log-in bubble wasn’t covering Patrick’s face. He wonders if that was on purpose and then he shoves the thought away.

There’s no hesitation when Pete enters Patrick’s password, a secret he’d gained after a compelling argument of hat-stealing and tickles. The series of sentimental words and numbers fit into the box comfortably— the name of Patrick’s first pet followed by the date he bought his first Prince record— and Pete’s glad it’s nothing related to the band. The background image is upsetting enough— learning Patrick’s incorporated his nostalgia into anything else would be too much.

As the computer loads Patrick’s settings, Pete bites his lip in preparation for what he might find. He doesn’t know what he expects but his imaginings— overdramatic and cruel, even for him— leave his mouth dry in fear. He pictures scandalous emails, proof of someone taking Pete’s place in Patrick’s life. He thinks of documents and messages detailing how much Patrick must despise him. He concocts nightmares about another horrible message, another post of noxious words and depression. He thinks of every reason it would be his fault, the contagion of his disease.

What he sees, though, is Garageband. 

Silence rests in Pete’s mind like puddles of rainwater after a storm. Files of music stare back at him, songs Patrick had been recording but has yet to release. 

Pete doesn’t dare to breathe as he pulls the cursor to rest atop one of the more recent songs. Only his heart seems content in moving as temptation and curiosity surge through his systems.

Patrick’s songs are like codes to his own being, every essence of him woven into what he writes. He’s never needed lyrics in order to make sense, never needed pretty words or prose. Every note is a key to Patrick’s mind and every melody is a locket kept close to his chest. What would Pete learn if he pressed play? What would he hear? What would he understand?

Pete shuts his eyes.

No. 

He came here for Patrick, not the songs he wasn’t meant to know. Years ago, he’d listen without guilt but things have changed. He doesn’t have all the trust he was previously granted and he certainly doesn’t have the right. His thoughts shake and shudder in his mind, convulsing from the struggle to make the moral decision— the best decision.

He’s always needed Patrick’s music but that music has never needed him— he’d go so far to say such a glorious thing never even had the time to consider him a friend.

All goes still when he shuts the computer once more, his breaths rippling through the silent air. 

Shivering and shuddering, Pete shuts off the lights and finds sleep on the couch. 

He doesn’t need any more ghosts of the past tonight.

~ ~ ~

For the first time in more years than he cares to count, Pete sleeps soundly with no senses on guard, and for the first time in more years than he cares to count, he wakes to Patrick’s hands on his skin.

What starts as a peaceful morning, though, quickly shifts when Patrick’s gentle pokings become hurried shoves and shakes at Pete’s shoulders.

“Wake up,” he insists, an almost panicked tone coloring his voice. Pete peels his eyes open, batting Patrick away with a groan. Patrick, red-faced and panting, glares as he crosses his arms over his chest. It’s not the best sight to wake to— in fact, Pete only accepts it because it’s Patrick.

“What the hell, dude?” Pete says between yawns, stretching out across the couch like a cat. “Did early mornings become, like, a no-band necessity because I swear you’ve never been this—”

“What the fuck were you doing on my laptop?” Patrick asks. Pete pauses, eyebrows furrowing together. Laptop? He searches through his sleep-muddled mind, only half-listening to Patrick’s impassioned rant. “You always fucking do this shit! You’re always digging into my things and looking around and, god, you would think a few years apart would put up some sort of barrier but you can’t even do that! What is it about my stuff that makes you want to go through it? Why is it me, specifically, that you can’t leave alone?”

A flirtation rises to Pete’s lips, an easy smile with a quote he might have said if this was an interview from years ago. It’d be enough to make Patrick blush, to have him storm off, but this isn’t then and Pete isn’t willing to risk making this fight worse than it is. 

“Patrick, man, chill,” he says, sitting up and rubbing his eyes when he realizes what Patrick’s talking about. “I… I don’t do that anymore, okay? I was cleaning the house and— and I saw the laptop and decided to charge it for you, okay? Sure, I logged in and saw the songs but I didn’t play any of them. I wouldn’t do that.”

Patrick scoffs and the sound of it hurts. “You would.”

“Yeah, years ago.” Pete takes a different approach, lowering his voice and making his words soft, rounded and calm. “I want you to trust me, okay? That’s all I want.”

Patrick’s lips, parted and ready for another rant, twist into a confused scowl, his eyes narrowing as he leans back— pulling away from the conversation and Pete’s words. Finally, just as Pete’s beginning to feel sick from the silence, Patrick turns and walks away.

Pete’s sickness turns to panic. He knows how these moments go, the cold shoulder and offhand remarks about how he’s messed up this time. Patrick will go hide in his room or studio, ramble to himself about how much he hates Pete, and then write an amazing song— a song Pete will never hear if he truly wishes to stick to this trust thing.

The knowledge that Patrick will be back to ignoring him, though, strikes harder than any other regret Pete has. He pulls himself from the couch, wincing at the soreness in his neck and back, and turns with a plan to go find his suitcase and a change of clothes.

Patrick, though, stands behind the couch with wide eyes and an open laptop in his hands. Pete mimics his shocked expression, speechless when Patrick ducks his head and storms over to sit on the couch with the laptop on the coffee table before it. Even tense and challenging, something about Patrick calls for Pete to sit beside him. So Pete does.

The computer’s open to the same screen Pete had seen the night before, the promise of music and Patrick’s voice. He holds his breath, looking over at Patrick though Patrick keeps his gaze firmly at his hands.

“What?” Pete asks.

The response is immediate. “Pick one.”

Pete starts, pulling away as if Patrick had presented him with the opening to an obvious prank. “What?”

“Pick one,” Patrick says, scowling. “One of the songs, demos, whatever. Despite how much of a dick you can be, I do trust you and… And I want you to do the same for me.”

“Oh,” Pete says, hating that no other words take shape in his mouth, no reassurances that Pete has always trusted Patrick with everything precious in his life— his lyrics, his poems, his messy thoughts. He looks back down at the computer, mouth suddenly dry. “Oh.”

His hands shake for no other reason than the heavy weight of Patrick’s eyes on them, watching each muscle twitch when Pete reaches to slide the cursor over the first song. It’s the longest and most recently opened, the tag beneath it promising that Patrick had last worked on the song a mere few days before Pete’s arrival. He rests the cursor over the title, a simple line reading  _ MY. _

“Not that one,” Patrick says, jerking in his seat and turning red. “You can… You can pick any song but that one.”

“Well, that’s not very fai—” Pete cuts himself off when he glances over at Patrick, taking in the short breaths and teeth clenched on his bottom lip. Patrick’s hands curl over the edge of the couch, tight enough for Pete to see white bone beneath, and every muscle in his body is tense. It’s a look Pete’s only ever seen during insensitive interviews, during Q&As with people more interested in a catchy headline than anyone’s feelings. It’s the look of someone who knows they’re cornered. “Okay, yeah, fine. I’ll, um. I’ll go with this one, then.”

Pete slides the cursor towards the song with the shortest time, anything to ease the bundle of stress sitting beside him. It’s a handful of seconds but Pete glances over at Patrick once more, taking the jerky nod as a sign to continue.

Moving slow enough that Patrick could stop him at any moment, Pete clicks the song and lets it play.

_ “ _ _ Na, na, na, na, na, na, _

_ Na, na, na, na, na…” _

Pete’s eyes widen at the sudden upbeat tune flooding from Patrick’s speakers, bass and drum decorating the lyricless vocals of a song Pete wouldn’t be surprised to hear on a radio’s pop station. It’s everything Pete wasn’t expecting, entirely devoid of any semblance of tragedy or loneliness. The beat plays along with Pete’s heart, a fun and catchy tune caught in the familiar kiss of Patrick’s singing. Before long, he finds himself nodding his head along with it, tapping his fingers on his knee at the exact time Patrick does.

All too soon, the song ends and Pete stares blankly at the screen before him. There’s always a sense of wonder after listening to something Patrick’s created, a fingerprint left on his soul to remind him how lucky he is to know someone so special. He clears his throat, pastes on a smile, and turns to Patrick. 

“It’s amazing,” he says. “I love it.”

Patrick’s eyeroll is a comfort, the most normal he’s appeared since Pete’s arrived, but it still leaves a tart twist in Pete’s gut. “Yeah, well, too bad it’s never getting finished. I haven’t had much reason to sing anymore.”

“You can always sing for—”

“For what? You?” Patrick shakes his head and Pete can’t tell who the exasperation is for. “Don’t be stupid, okay? It’s just… It was just something I was working on. Now, let’s forget about it. Come on, I’m gonna make coffee.”

If Pete didn’t already assume Patrick’s change of subject to be an escape, his sudden rush towards the kitchen is obvious enough.

Pete doesn’t call after him but he doesn’t follow either. 

He presses play and lets his mind wander towards that place he hasn’t touched since music fled from his life.

He goes towards lyrics meant for Patrick’s lips.

_ The only reason that I sing…  _

~ ~ ~ 

Pete doesn’t truly realize how bad things have gotten until Patrick stumbles away from him during an unofficial movie night later that evening, tripping off the couch and towards the bathroom with an adorable lack of grace.  _ Ghostbusters  _ plays in the distance, a backtrack to Patrick’s solemn silence. Pete had set up the movies and popcorns and semi-constructed blanket forts— more an excuse to get his hands on that relic from before than anything else— and waited, hoping Patrick would eventually let his guard down and spill.

Patrick, however, has mastered the art of pretending nothing’s wrong— or, at least, pretending he doesn’t want to talk about it— and Pete has to rely on more devious tactics. 

When Patrick’s phone buzzes on the coffee table, abandoned and temptingly bright, Pete doesn’t think twice about reaching for it. It’s a contradiction to his earlier claim, the trust he earned by keeping Patrick’s music private, but it’s not the phone itself that catches his eye— it’s the notification.

A radio show host, apparently, has mentioned him on Twitter and, if there’s anything Pete’s learned about the site, it’s never a good thing to be mentioned out of the blue. So, he reasons, it’s a kindness to check this before Patrick does, like a father previewing a scary movie so he can close his kid’s eyes at the right times later.

As twitter loads on Patrick’s phone, Pete pointedly ignores how Patrick’s always been the kid with the ability to peek through the cracks.

The tweet is exactly what Pete had been fearing when he’d seen the notification— no message meant for Patrick and nothing more than a stunt to gain more likes. It mocks the fanbase’s fears over the blog post and, then, in the end, claims:  _ Let’s just hope @PatrickStump isn’t googling himself as we speak _ .

So, of course, the next thing Pete does is google Patrick’s name.

He’s alarmed to see the same search in Patrick’s history—  _ Patrick Stump  _ along with a variety of words like  _ blog post, review _ , or  _ rumor— _ but Pete shakes it away. They’ve all googled themselves at some point and even Pete isn’t immune to doing so.

But, then again, Pete’s the only one who learned how to handle what appears.

Gossip sites and news articles fill the page, tabloids and rumors about the infamous— Infamous, with a capital I according to some— blog post Patrick had shared a while ago. The headlines alone are cruel and facetious garbage, clickbait meant to worry fans and prompt haters with theories of depression and darker things. They use words like “sell-out” and “attention whore” — all phrases ever meant for Pete. 

Pete knows how this goes and he’s learned the hard way how to deal with so-called journalists like these. He can scan a webpage and tune out his own name until the letters mean nothing, scribbles meant to represent the mess of a man called Pete. But it’s different when the websites are screaming Patrick’s name. It’s sharper, clearer, more threatening when the insults are directed at someone else.

People mock him in the comments, spouting lies and myths about Patrick’s cry for attention, his dramatics and how they prove he couldn’t possibly mean a word he’d written. They call him a faker and laugh at copy-pasted phrases from his heart; his soul is torn to shred with a few clicks of someone on the other side of the screen— people who can’t possibly believe he feels the way he does. That, or they just don’t care.

Worse, though, are the people who claim every piece of the blog is true— every piece and more. The people who concoct a reason to expect the extremes, tugging at the thread until minds unravel into theories and scary stories, drama for drama’s sake and, if they’re lucky, a few new follows on their blogs. They dig into his words like an English professor, tossing metaphors in and out when it suits them; digging until the message has been narrowed down into something everyone heard but nobody feared.

Patrick’s quitting music, they say; Patrick’s quitting life.

To say Pete’s sick would be an understatement. Still, it’s the only word he has as he scrolls through page after page of slander and cruelty, the words mashing together until they’re nothing more than weapons used to cut into the one person he cares for most. 

And, then, all at once, the words disappear. 

Patrick stands before him, face blank as he cradles the phone to his chest after snatching it out of Pete’s hand. The world fades back into place, molecule by molecule, starting with  _ Ghostbusters  _ and ending with the pale look of Patrick’s face.

“You shouldn’t be looking at that,” Patrick whispers and Pete wishes he knew whether or not it’s the first thing Patrick’s said since returning. 

He answers anyway. “They shouldn’t be saying that.” 

Patrick laughs but the sound comes out all wrong, his throat constricting around it as if he never meant for it to escape in the first place. 

“Open your eyes,” he snaps. “They’ve been saying it for a while.”

A while. Before Pete arrived and before Pete knew. Before Pete was here to stop it; before he ever had the chance to learn how.

Suddenly, everything about Patrick makes so much more sense. 

He’s colder now, meaner and harsher, because that’s what the world threw at him when he showed himself off as kind and good. He felt each blow with his soul on stage, each onslaught and insult and strike. He had to learn how to defend himself, to protect himself, to guard his heart lest he loses it.

And he had to do the one thing Pete had never wanted him to do— numb himself to what’s been done.

It’s not as bad as it had been with Pete— there’s still fragments of pain in Patrick’s eyes when he speaks of the blows he’s received over the years. But something’s missing, stolen, dropped from his face like a shooting star. His optimism burned up in the atmosphere of cruel critics and hateful ex-fans, people who never saw him as anything more than a character when, all this time, he’s been the sun they should have been worshipping.

They broke a piece of him and there’s nothing Pete can do to fix it. 

Pete— the tides to Patrick’s moon, the planets to his sun— sees the red of a world on fire. 

How dare they? 

How  _ dare  _ they?

He stands with no words left on his tongue, nothing but flames in his mind as he grabs his jacket and leaves. Patrick calls after him but Pete can’t register the sound of his own name in the fuming air.

He can’t fix Patrick but he sure as hell can prevent anything else from collapsing in on what’s left of him.

“At least tell me where you’re going!” Patrick snaps, halting Pete with a firm fist in the back of his shirt. Pete yanks away and turns, eyes blazing with the intent to destroy.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, sounding every bit as maniacal as he feels. “I’ll be back soon.”

Patrick’s cheeks spark red and Pete’s eyes catch on the blossoms, the fading flowers in a world about to burn. “Then tell me what you’re doing.”

Pete grins, an expression cut into his cheeks with the blade of Patrick’s eyes. “What I do best.”

It’s not an answer but Pete’s not looking to be candid with Patrick. He’s looking to protect him, to save him, to hide him from the world in every way that worked before.

When the front door slams shut behind him, his phone’s already lit up with Ashlee’s name.

And Pete doesn’t hesitate to call.

`~ ~ ~

Blue. White. Yellow. The lights flicker before his car like a beacon for disaster, morse code calling him to translate and interpret his own glitching mind. Pete sits in the parking lot, a bitter taste like pills in the back of his throat, and the worst form of nostalgia settles into his bones.

_ You can’t be moving or thinking right now, though _ , a sinister voice in his head taunts, a voice dragged up from the past that sounds like slipping eyes and tight fists.  _ Can’t you see you’re dead? _

Pete wonders if every Best Buy sign will have him reacting like this or if it’s only a side effect of the darkened sky, the silent parking lot, the fear pounding in his chest. Even his breaths drop in volume as emotion fills his heavy lungs, static replacing every sound he might hear.

It’s a yellowing sign, out of order and across the street, but it still smiles like the nightmares painted across Pete’s brain. It mocks and it blinks in rhythm with Pete’s thrumming heart, his aching chest, and he knows this was a bad idea, a horrible idea, an awful plot hatched to protect just one person.

But that one person is all that’s keeping him in his seat right now, hands gripping the steering wheel like it’s life and death’s picking the car’s locks.

The car shifts and the world moves with it, slipping into a darker shade of black. Pete’s heart picks a new melody, a new song to sing with, and Ashlee is suddenly sitting beside him.

Funny. He didn’t notice her come in.

She’s silent, watching him with familiar eyes, and the sky seems comfortable enough to show shades of grey around her. She bites her lip— pretty and pink, lips Pete used to kiss and love and cherish— and then looks away.

“How are you doing?” She asks, sounding more genuine than Pete expected.

“I’m fine.” The words are electric on his tongue, pieces of his soul escaping in the shape of lies. 

Ashlee hums like she doesn’t believe him but she doesn’t push any further. He’s always liked that about her.

“I’ll be honest with you,” she starts as if she’s ever anything but honest with him. “I don’t think you’re doing the right thing.”

Pete has nothing to say to that. There’s no way to make her understand that this is for Patrick, the one person she always knew he loved more than her, and there’s no way to make her think it’s not another self-destructive spiral.

She keeps going, the volume in her voice turning up like she’s still trying to capture Pete’s attention.

“We agreed to keep the divorce secret because we didn’t want people coming after you. Sure, they’d say shit about me but it’s you who’d take the brunt. No matter how things ended, I don’t want you to deal with their gossip again.” She sighs, running manicured nails through her hair, messing it up until Pete’s blinded with memories of late nights and early mornings, the sensation of those same nails scratching down his back or across his scalp. Loving, tender, his. “Things have just gotten quiet on your end, right? I don’t see your face anywhere online unless I’m really searching so why on earth would you want to go give them something to torture you with now?”

Pete’s mind feels a little loose and fuzzy as he thinks of the logic in Ashlee’s words. There are no lies, no sugar-coated sweets, and he appreciates the burn as he swallows it all down. He’d wanted the hiatus— the break, the emptiness— to be a chance to start over, to clean his slate and greet the world as if he owns it again. If they tell anyone about the divorce, it’ll shatter every hope of being taken serious— of being left alone by the vultures and their flashing lights.

_ Attention whore. Sell-out. Liar. Drama queen. _

They’re all words being tossed in a different direction for once but one thing hasn’t changed— they’re all words that fit far better on Pete.

“I’m willing to go along since it’s no skin off my back.” Ashlee’s still talking, still trying to fit reason into the head of the most unreasonable person on earth. “But I need to know you’re sure. We weren’t together long but it was enough time for me to know how you get. I don’t… I don’t want to help you hurt yourself.”

Again, no response because hurting himself is exactly the plan. Tearing the target off Patrick’s back and stapling it to his own chest is bound to leave some damage but it’s damage he’ll always willingly take. Right now, Patrick’s numb to the insults but not as numb as he could be— just enough to last a little longer, just enough to hold himself together in front of others. And Pete doesn’t want to know what will happen when that facade finally wears off.

The static in his head grows louder, drowning out Ashlee’s voice as he imagines Patrick becoming worse— becoming like him. Dying on the inside until the rot spreads from the core to his flesh, begging him to claw at it, to scratch at it, to tear it apart until it infects everyone the  _ way you infected Patrick, you monster, you— _

“Pete!”

He blinks. Back to reality. Back to blue-white-yellow lights and Ashlee’s grounding voice.

“Pete, are you sure?”

He thinks of Patrick. He thinks of himself.

He doesn’t bother weighing the two hearts against each other. Patrick’s no saint but he, at least, can still be turned into one.

Is he sure?

He shuts his eyes and promises, “Yes.”

~ ~ ~

Life would be easier if Patrick didn’t know everything there is to know about Pete. And life would be easier if Pete were less willing to keep his secrets like hidden scars on his chest, festering and burning but only his to deal with.

He waits until morning to return to Patrick, lies collecting on his tongue to cover up where he’s been. The sky’s a shade of dusted grey, pink and orange clinging to the horizon like spilled paint, and he wonders if Patrick will believe him when he says he merely needed to clear his mind.

A pleasurable ride into the city, he’ll say. A trip, a journey, a jaunt into town and nothing more. 

Slate-grey shadows greet Pete as he steps through the door, feeling more like a stranger than he had the first time he walked in here. All the lights are off but one, Patrick cooped up in the kitchen with disheveled blond hair and eyes stuck on the laptop screen before him. He hadn’t slept all night, Pete knows with just a glance.

And, by the article’s headline— a simple, catchy, all-encompassing  **Wentz and Simpson Split** — he knows why.

An apology feels out of place and, knowing Patrick, he’d be able to tell it wasn’t genuine. He turns weary eyes on Pete and sinks deeper into himself— reading Pete in every way Pete can’t read him right now.

Patrick’s stiff posture, his exhaustion, the twitching around his lips— they all add up into things Pete can’t translate, signs of an emotion Pete hasn’t seen before. Disappointment but more hurt than that. Betrayal but less dramatic than it deserves to be.

Though Patrick hasn’t spoken, words rise in Pete’s throat to demur the lack of gratitude. He fights them down, battling his own need to be correct, to be validated, to be told that he did the right thing for once in his life.

But he knows better than to expect happiness at this moment. He just wishes Patrick could show him how he feels because this emptiness is worse than Pete could have ever imagined.

Slowly, the day turns a sickening shade of pale blue, mocking the colors in Patrick’s eyes as if this will finally turn Pete’s gaze from them. 

As if anything ever will.

Finally, Patrick breaks, shutting his computer off though the screen has long gone black. He tucks it under his arm like a morning newspaper and the sight would be humorous if he didn’t look so hollow.

Patrick tries to keep the silence but his bare feet pad across the floor and add to the static noise around them. Pete holds his breath, hoping to hear a word from Patrick, a sign that he isn’t as upset as he appears.

At the doorway, Patrick stops.

“I just wish I would have heard it from you. But, then, I guess I’m the only one who ever has to open up.”

Simple words, delivered with as little emotion as possible.

As Patrick disappears into his own room, Pete’s regrets tick loudly in his ears.

And the regret of making Patrick sound such a way is the loudest one of all.

~ ~ ~

The precipitous drop into silence is expected but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. It’s the same brand of quiet that raised him, as much to blame for his life as his parents and favorite bad habits. It’s the same stillness he walked into the first day he entered Patrick’s house with the intent of fixing him— the same calm he’d do anything to escape.

But you can’t run from something of your own making and a week passes with barely a word. Pete’s pretty letters and phrases dry up on his tongue in Patrick’s presence, stolen by the shame of his secrets and hypocrisy. Patrick, too, carries an expression like all his thought are held precariously upon his shoulders, a burden Pete is never meant to see. 

What hurts most, though, is the silence that comes in the form of computer clicks and the buzz of lights left on at night. Patrick doesn’t invite Pete to listen to any more songs but Pete knows he’s writing them— not because Patrick’s writing but because he knows Patrick. He knows the shade of the bruises beneath his eyes when he stays up working on a specific chord; he knows the rhythm his hands shake to when there’s a melody stuck in his head but not in his instruments, yet to be strummed or played. 

He knows Patrick’s writing songs and, the same way Patrick trembles when he can’t get a song to work, Pete trembles with the fact that he doesn’t know what they are.

Patrick’s like a ghost in his own home, appearing and disappearing without sound— here in the kitchen to refill his coffee but back to his studio before Pete can take a breath. It’s the way things were before he and Ashlee split— terribly tense and crashing down with a casual kind of chaos.

And, just like before, Pete doesn’t know what he did wrong; he knows he did everything wrong. It’s the same war his mind always likes to wage against itself whenever there’s a fight with someone he cares about. Half of his heart is always on the other side— and that’s the half he can never find the reason to blame.

It’s this half of his heart that leads him to Patrick’s room late at night— so late it’d be better to call it morning. It messes with his head every time he steps into his bedroom, the TV playing with no volume or a book Patrick’s read before sprawled across his lap. These are the hours after Patrick’s given up on whatever song he’d been writing— the hours where sleep seems like the worst option so he evades it with shows he doesn’t care about or a door cracked open with the hope that Pete will join him.

Or, at least, Pete hopes he hopes for this.

On nights like these, Pete still doesn’t speak and Patrick never seems to expect him to. He keeps quiet as Pete curls up beside him, reading over his shoulder or flicking through the TV channels until there’s something more enjoyable on— something calm enough for them both to slip into sleep. 

Mornings following nights like this are strange. They hold some “morning after” implications though both men are always clothed— both men are always dreadfully silent.

Pete wonders if Patrick hates himself each time he peels away from the bed to go take hour-long showers. Does Patrick curse and swear and scream under the steady stream of water? Does he cry and let those tears fade into the spray? 

Does he take so long because he’s busy washing Pete off his skin and thoughts?

Pete could never blame him if that’s the case. He wishes he could wash Pete Wentz away from his being, too— maybe the world would be a better place.

Eventually, after his morning dose of self-loathing, Pete follows Patrick’s lead and tears free from the bed like a dead man rising from the ground. He doesn’t shower or change, though. He heads for the kitchen to make breakfast.

It’s always something different, always something new as if the right ingredients will lead Patrick down to him. It’s just another of his stupid hopes but, he reassures himself, it helps to know he has hope left to spend.

But hope dwindles with each passing day and, by the end of the week, Pete’s left arranging toast on a plate because he’s run out of the insanity that keeps him going. Two plates sit before him, identical but for the dents made in his own.

What a fool he must be to believe Patrick could forgive him in the span of a week. If he didn't forgive him after three years, what’s to say he’ll ever forgive him, at all?

He’s about to turn to toss the plates out— another waste that will have him hating himself a bit more— when there’s a sound at the stairs. He doesn’t let himself hope too greatly but he does look up with a sense of heart-thundering urgency— the same way he always looks at Patrick.

Patrick’s still dripping from the shower as he walks into the kitchen, running his hands through wet locks of golden hair. It’s dark from the water, not as vibrant as before, and even his eyes look different this morning— the shape of his lips feels more important than yesterday.

He pauses in the doorway, daring to widen his eyes as if he’s surprised to see Pete here— as if it shouldn’t be the other way around. It only lasts a heartbeat, though, before he nods to himself and takes the seat across from Pete. He doesn’t look at him, eyes attaching to the window beside them instead.

It’s enough.

“It’s a nice morning,” Patrick says, at last. Four simple words— flat and delivered coldly.

Pete grins. “Yeah. It’s a really nice morning.”

It’s more than enough.

~ ~ ~

“ _ Hell is filled with broken dreams and I know the doorman personally _

_ Gemini mind all the time— which side’s riding in the hearse with me?” _

_ Pete made a deal with himself when the band separated— broke up, took a break, whatever fancy terms the journalists used.  _

_ He promised not to write about Patrick. _

_ Every sun-kissed description was left behind, every pretty piece of prose forsaken. Every dream was hidden away and every nightmarish fear found itself alone and scrapped. _

_ It was meant to be something dark and mean, a sign to the world that Patrick was never the muse he made himself out to be. Pete wanted to write of other lovers, of people better and brighter and more brilliant than Patrick. _

_ But Pete was left in the dark and no one shined enough light to pull him out. No one stood near enough for him to grab their skin, the way he did Patrick’s, and use their blood as his inspiration. No one was enough for the grandeur of the words inside his head. _

_ So Pete was left with himself. _

_ And that’s a darkness that no one should ever have to read. _

_ “Got this thing in my chest dying to get out _

_ Is there a velvet rope up in the clouds?” _

_ ~ ~ ~ _

_ (Still, a bitter part of him hoped that Patrick would read the lyrics and know. _

_ He hoped that Patrick would hear the songs and see the mess he’d made) _

_ ~ ~ ~ _ __   
  


_ Pete dreams in shades of gold. He covers himself with the colors of Patrick’s eyes, the brilliance of Patrick’s voice, the sparkling tones and musical tints of every word they’ve ever shared. _

_ But, mostly, he dreams of gold.  _

_ Hollow aches tug at his chest and stomach as he gazes at the gilded scene before him, a scene pulled from his earliest memories of the band. A pitiful excuse for a stage, a crowd of apathetic teens and college students surrounding it— a banner proclaiming Fall Out Boy as the headlining band for the night. _

_ There’s a shimmer and a shift and suddenly he’s on the stage, playing bass without hearing the notes. Everything is sour and twisted; the song’s a mere memory forced to replay on a dusty mp3. The crowd cheers for blood as he fumbles to play. If this band fails, it’s his blood they’ll come for. _

_ But then there’s Patrick in the corner of his eye, a shooting star amongst the veil of night. Singing and playing with hands still twitching around drumsticks that aren’t there. _

_ Pete steps closer, the way he should have years ago— the way he could have never done if this were real. _

_ Patrick doesn’t turn to look but he does smile and Pete’s certain he’s the only one who feels the blaze. It sears into his bones and soul, melting his heart into a mess of muscle trying to find a new beat. It pinches and constricts, his lungs following the same pattern as he finds himself stepping closer. _

_ As he finds himself dropping his hands and giving up the song entirely. _

_ All at once, the music stops but the crowd doesn’t jeer the way they should. Blank faces stare back at the stage and it doesn’t make sense. Someone should already be speaking, should be shouting at Pete to continue. Someone should have stopped things from getting this far. _

_ “Pete?” It’s Patrick’s hand on his shoulder that makes Pete realize that they’re alone on the stage, in the spotlight with every critical eye watching. Patrick lifts his chin, peering down at Pete as if he’s the younger one— the one needing to be watched. “Pete?” _

Don’t touch me _ , Pete wants to say.  _ Don’t waste your warmth on this.

_ At the same time, he hears Patrick’s thoughts collecting in the spot where they’re connected, as clear as if they’re his own. _

You look so cold _. It’s Patrick’s voice and words but in all the metaphors Pete never shared.  _ You look so cool. 

_ Patrick doesn’t run and Pete doesn’t move forward, at odds with each other without ever speaking.  _

_ As the crowd shuffles around them, Pete lifts a hand to Patrick’s cheek. Fever fills his palm, a burning that Patrick alone can sustain. _

_ “You shouldn’t stand so close to me,” Pete says. “I’ll destroy you.” _

_ Patrick smiles like the sun, stepping forward with every promise of pressing his lips to Pete’s, their hips bumping together. “Do you think you will if I want it otherwise?” _

_ And Pete aches and aches and aches and moves closer and closer and— _

~ ~ ~

Forget about gold and shimmering shades of blue and green; Pete opens his eyes to the heavy darkness of just another bedroom.

For just a moment, the warmth of his dream feels too real to ignore, too long-lasting to have been just a handful of hours, and he wonders which of the memories are real. Did he ever visit Patrick? Was that post ever written? 

Where is he?

Something behind him shifts and, when Pete turns, he breathes a short-lived sigh of relief.

Patrick. He’s still with Patrick.

All comfort fades, though, when Patrick whines in his sleep, Pete’s eyes adjusting and focusing on the mottled mess of emotions painting Patrick’s face, a camera twisting capture the finer details of its subject. Twisted in pained, hands clawing at the sheets before him, Patrick could almost be crying. 

“Patrick,” Pete croaks in that irritating 3 a.m. voice. “Patrick, wake up.”

He receives no response and he knows better than to act surprised— Patrick’s always slept through everything, even his own nightmares. Still, concern tugs at his chest and guilt pulls at his hands until he’s grabbing at Patrick’s shoulders in some odd mix of gentle and urgent.

“It’s just a dream,” he says as Patrick whines again, a telltale sign of something dark or crimson. “It’s… It’s just a dream.”

There’s no proof Patrick can hear him but, when he moves into Pete’s touch, Pete pauses and listens for another whimper. None appear.

It only seems right to wrap his arm around Patrick and to curl up next to him, his body sparking in every place of contact. Even through layers of blankets and clothes, something about this feels wrong— and only because Pete knows it’s right. What else could it be when Patrick’s grabbing at his shirt and pulling him close, lost in the innocence of sleep? How can this— the contented sigh Patrick emits, the way they fit so perfectly together— be anything but right?

Just for tonight, Pete refuses to feel bad for this. Just for tonight, he holds Patrick close and tight— protected and warm. 

_ No hope of that warmth in the morning _

Pete knows Patrick won’t appreciate it— he doesn’t doubt another fight may appear— but, for now, Patrick hides his sleepy tears in the fabric of Pete’s shirt.

There’s nothing wrong with that.

~ ~ ~

_ —and Pete’s always imagined Patrick’s lips would bring the calm to his chaos. He’s only been able to test the theory on the nights where he and Patrick feel the same kind of alone, the same hopeless pining that they’d perfected. Nights when the hypothesis and data were skewed by the flavor of alcohol on Patrick’s tongue and the way the morning light broke across naked skin and ashamed faces— both too stupid and afraid to stay for long. _

_ But Pete still dreams of these moments and this dream is no exception. _

_ Golden lips and stage lights. The crowd has somehow disappeared. _

_ Pete’s hands are in Patrick’s hair, at last, tangling it further as Patrick shoves his tongue into his mouth. Young and less experienced than he pretends to be, fumbling with Pete’s shirt as the taste of too many beers explodes in Pete’s mouth. _

_ “I love you,” Patrick slurs, murmurs, swears. “Don’t leave me, I love you.” _

_ He always says this when they kiss and maybe that’s why it always makes a guest appearance in Pete’s dreams. Pete never says it back, too certain that Patrick already knows.  _

_ “You’re drunk,” he says instead, laughing when Patrick bites his lip.  _

_ “I’m not.” Patrick’s whiny and, in the morning, Pete will thank his dreams for recreating that sound. “I really do love you.” _

_ “Okay, Rick,” Pete says, pulling him in for another kiss. The nights aren’t as long as they used to be and he wants to fit in as many as he can before the sun dares to rise. “Okay.” _

_ But Patrick keeps interrupting, eyes wide as he tries to assure Pete of his feelings. “I really think I’m in love with you…” _

_ ~ ~ ~ _

_ (… “Okay, maybe I really am just drunk.” _

_ One day, Pete listened to Patrick’s lyrics and decided he’s not the only one guilty of writing about forbidden loves)  _

_ ~ ~ ~ _

The first thing Pete notices upon waking is that he still has Patrick in his arms. They’re tangled together, legs twisting around each other like veins and arms clinging to shirts like lifelines. Pete pauses at the realization, drowsiness dripping from his body with the steady beat of Patrick’s heart so close to his chest.

For a moment, Pete doesn’t move, too afraid to wake Patrick from what appears to be a restful sleep. There’s also the concern that Patrick will pull away once his eyes open, the fear that this serene expression will twist into one of self-disgust and Pete will be left alone in this bed again.

Pete doesn’t think of why he fears these things; it’s too early to start being that honest with himself. 

He shuts his eyes and tries to sleep but his dream pulls at the edges of his mind, tugging at strands that connect to everything else. All his thoughts are tainted by that golden sheen of drunken memories and his very existence seems dependent upon it.

In the waking world, Patrick nuzzles closer and Pete’s eyes open when his nose— a little cold, a little rounded— bumps into his neck.

Pete can’t stay here any longer.

He pulls from Patrick with movements that take a lifetime, carefully calculating each muscle before putting it into action. His arm reveals itself from beneath Patrick’s head, chills and tingles fluttering along the nerves as blood rushes back into his hand, and it only hurts a little when his hips brush alongside Patrick’s.

Soon, he’s free. 

He aches to return back to how they were with a pain like ice around his heart. 

When Patrick turns the other way, Pete does the same. He lets anxiety pull him back to the guest bedroom— too unused to be referred to as his— and lets his stress dress him in sweats and an oversized tee. Patrick won’t wake for hours, he knows, so he doesn’t complain when his bustling mind and shaking limbs carry him outside before allowing him to collapse on the front porch steps.

His head falls into his hands, the wisps of morning wind brushing through his hair tenderly. His shaky breaths break the pattern the breeze had set, marking him as the odd man out— the way he always is.

“This is pathetic.” The words escape of their own accord, pushing past his lips with a force he’s too tired to return. “Am you really expecting to go through this shit again? Nothing will get done if you fall back into the same stupid trap as before. And you promised you wouldn’t go back to that.”

He speaks to himself because he knows no one else is there to listen, hoping that the thoughts will look less tangled against the slowly rising sun. 

Instead, they just appear broken. 

His fingers inch up until they can grasp at his hair, reaching for the familiar coarseness of his straightened bangs but finding only the shorter strands left, a memory of why every ounce of longing in his being is off-limits. He threw away his old persona, his favorite facade of Pete Wentz the Showman. The day Partick declared himself against Pete Wentz, Pete joined his side and destroyed the man who hurt him.

And, now, that man is slowly coming back, making his claim with pulsing wounds of want and need, desire and passion flaring up each time Patrick so much as breathes in his direction. It hurts to push this Pete back down, to pretend he’s not there, but Pete’s never been so good at just making his problems disappear.

He only knows how to become them.

His hands slam back down onto the concrete steps, scraping his palms and wrists as he shoves himself harshly to his feet. He doesn’t know where he’s going or what he’s doing when he begins to run but it’s comforting to watch the neighborhood pass by in a blur of his own creation, a collage no one will ever see in the exact same way. Browns and greens and pretty houses mesh against the sky, a world of where Patrick’s eyes can’t reach him— where the old Pete’s heart can finally stop beating.

He runs for what feels like hours, the strain of his muscles and the weight of his breath doing their best to distract him from every thought he had before. But the sun doesn’t stop for anyone and it rises with a proud display, pinks and blues across the sky, and Pete finds himself running home— running to Patrick the way he always will.

It’s late enough that Patrick might be awake; it’s early enough he might still be in bed.

In the back of his mind, the old Pete smirks.

_ Either way, you’re looking forward to both _

Pete ignores him, the nasty voice shattering like glass in his head.

He finds Patrick in the kitchen, making coffee with an impassive expression. He doesn’t greet Pete and Pete has nothing to say, wiping sweat from his brow and somehow feeling guilty when Patrick only pours one cup of coffee.

Something about this morning is different and Pete can pinpoint a dozen contenders. Instead, he focuses on his own questions, the half-moon curve of Patrick’s frown and why it’s there.

He wonders if Patrick remembers a thing from last night.

Pete’s not a smart man and asking Patrick if he remembers cuddling isn’t a smart move. Still, he steps forward and leans against the counter, waiting for these words to form.

“Hey, do you—”

Patrick meets him a gaze of steel, an eyebrow raised as if he already knows how the conversation will go and is giving Pete the chance to back out of it.

Pete knows he’s a coward but the knowledge doesn’t make him feel any better as he closes his mouth once more. 

Patrick’s not going to make things so easy, though; it’s a truth Pete knows from nearly a decade of being his best friend. 

When Patrick looks away, Pete closes his eyes so he won’t have to see him leave.

The old Pete does the same. 

~ ~ ~

Confusion burns a hole through Pete’s guts. For once, his thoughts are silent and pure emotion hangs over him instead, wordless and without a sound. He makes his way through the house once, twice, three times to be sure. At the bottom of the stairs, he pauses with his hands on his hips.

Someone’s cleaned.

Not gentle cleaning either, no; the floors have been vacuumed, dishes washed and put away— even the tables and shelves appear dusted. It’s been a gradual process, one thing put back in place without his doing, and now the house is the exact opposite of the one he’d wandered into a month or so ago. He hasn’t brought it up lest he jinxes it but, now— a week or so after the cursed cuddling event— he feels like he should have a conversation with Patrick.

No matter how clean the house is, he can’t help the uncomfortable stirring in his stomach that this is a sign for something more. Obsession or a sudden spurt of energy, Pete’s going to find out.

Patrick’s in his room, the door open as he fits an older jacket around his shoulders. Pete pauses in the doorway, watching as Patrick uses his fingers to comb through his hair, shuffling into a nice pair of shoes at the same time. It’s an endearing sight but, again, Pete can’t revel in it the way he’d imagined he would.

When Patrick turns and finds Pete, he pauses. His hands rest comically on the buttons of his dress shirt, a sleek white button-up that he Pete possibly recalls from one of his solo performances. He looks like he’s ready to step onstage, all tight black jeans and freshly styled hair. Even the way he looks at Pete— an eyebrow raised, cheeks flushed— speaks nothing of the broken man Pete found weeks before.

Slowly, Pete forces himself to ask his question.

“Are you…” He trails off, the words all wrong on his tongue, and tries again. “I mean, you’re obviously busy. And, like, if… If you’re feeling better, I can leave.”

His voice is stilted and Patrick takes his time answering, drawing out the silence as if he hadn’t considered the idea before. Perhaps he hadn’t; perhaps he will, now that Pete’s said it. 

Pete can’t find it in himself to care; if he’s going to be buried, at least he was the one causing the avalanche. Just like old times.

At last, Patrick speaks.

“Is that what you think I want?” 

It sounds like a trick question and Pete doesn’t want to hear the answer. Not if it’s  _ yes. _

“Never mind,” he says, stepping into the room and crossing his arms. Patrick looks better the closer Pete stands to him, prepared for a night out, and something smoky curls in Pete’s chest. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” Patrick says, allowing him to change the subject without rebuttal. That dark feeling in Pete’s chest grows when Patrick checks his phone— for the time, for a message; Pete’s mind runs wild. “I used to go out a ton once the… Like, once the break started, you know. Not to drink or hook up or whatever you’re obviously thinking but… I like the music and I like the people I can meet and, I mean, I couldn’t really fit in with that setting before so I really went for it once I did. I like knowing that… that people aren’t judging me. Not for my appearance anyway.” His words snap against each other, branches in the breeze as his cheeks burn red.

The possession in Pete’s chest takes another turn, a red-hot blaze when he hears Patrick’s confession. 

Patrick’s always stood out to Pete, has always been more than another face in the crowds of pretty people. Nails dig into his arms at the implication that Patrick’s somehow better than he was before, now that he’s more welcome in places of scum and slime. Is this really how Patrick wants to be accepted? Broken within, a smile hiding everything? A gilded mirror, cracked from edge to edge? No one cares for bad luck, not if it still looks good on the wall.

Pete bites his tongue before admitting anything, merely nodding and trying to even his breaths.

“It sounds like a good time,” he says. Patrick sends him a cautious look and Pete’s certain he didn’t sound as unaffected as he’d wanted to.

“Did you—” Patrick starts, cutting himself off with a clicking in the back of his throat, messing up his hair as he runs his hands through it again. When he looks at Pete, his chest heaves as if he’s the one trying to control his emotions. His voice is small, hesitant, and Pete doesn’t want to know why. “Did you want to come? With me? Come with me to the bar? There’s a really good one a few blocks away— it’s not too crowded and it’s pretty clean and I know the people there and they seem nice and… Do you want to go?” 

It’s a simple question, an innocent request, and it doesn’t shock Pete as much as he’d expected it to. 

Still, Patrick blushes and looks away, biting his lip tight enough Pete fears it may burst.

Impulsive as ever, Pete steps forward. His hand hovers over Patrick’s shoulder, a plane asking for permission to land. Patrick doesn’t grant it, doesn’t look his way, but Pete tucks the warmth of his arm into his palm all the same.

Patrick looks over, eyes hopeful. It’s a look that fills Pete’s brain, his guts, his heart.

He smiles.

“I’d like that a lot.”

~ ~ ~

If Pete were a braver man, he’d turn to Patrick and ask, “how’s the line go again?”

And Patrick would say, smiling brighter than the firefly-stars in the sky, “you haven’t written it yet.”

And Pete would smile back.

Instead, as they wander together down streets of glimmering concrete and darkened alleys, Pete trades daydreams for lyrics. He keeps silent and lets Patrick lead, taking note of  _ this is the road to ruin  _ and  _ do you have room for one more troubled soul?  _

Words Patrick may never hear but, if Pete’s perfect world existed, words that Patrick would most definitely sing.

~ ~ ~

The bar isn’t anything sensational — a collection of warm wooden booths, pool tables to the side and a small stage up front— but Pete’s happier for it. Though he’s changed, Patrick wouldn’t fit in among the bars that have neon lights and glowing signs, the ones with bright white peaks against the nocturnal sky. Patrick may glow and glimmer and shine but he’s never been one to do so among others; he’s never been one to so consciously show it off.

Not that he quite fits in here, though. The air inside is smoky, visible and odorous, and it’s all out of place with Patrick’s flickering smile. He leads Pete to the bar, ordering drinks for the both of them, and Pete tries not to stare at how Patrick’s hands shake.

“That’s Danny,” Patrick says, nodding towards the bartender as he gets their glasses and fills them with some lighter beers from the tap. “I swear, he lives here. He’s always here when I come in.”

“And is that often?” Pete asks between his spoken gratitude when Danny slides the glasses their way. He takes a sip when Patrick does, not really tasting whatever floats and pops on his tongue.

Patrick shrugs, his sip considerably longer than Pete’s. 

“I used to. It was harmless, you know? I’d come in after long days at the studio by myself— believe it or not, I hated spending time all alone. It was driving me mad.” Any bitterness is covered by the way he points towards random people scattered around the room, chatting and laughing with each other in tiny worlds Pete can’t quite see into. “That’s Vinny, he does the livestreams whenever anyone comes in to perform for open mic. And the guy next to him is Rick. He and his brother do the sound. Oh, and that group back there is Allen’s family. They don’t work here but they like to come in to watch open mic performances. They’ve been to a few of my shows, too.” 

Patrick’s voice dwindles away towards the end, his shoulder hunching over slightly as if to hide from the people he’s just named. Pete frowns but says nothing, knowing Patrick will explain himself soon enough.

“That’s what I kinda hate,” Patrick says, turning his back away from the others. “They all  _ know  _ me. Most everyone in here… We’re not friends but I sure as hell didn’t mind talking about my music if people mentioned it. And then I went and screwed that up with the post… Is it self-centered to worry if they read it? If they… If they’re thinking of me differently now?”

He takes a longer drink before Pete can respond, turquoise eyes crossed as he stares into the half-empty glass once he’s done. He moves to lift the glass once more but Pete stops him, hand resting gently on his wrist.

“I don’t know what they’re thinking but… I mean, if you wanted to know… I could tell you what I thought,” he says, tripping over his words as if they’ve become more hazardous than before. Patrick doesn’t look at him, frowning into his glass still, but he doesn’t say no, either. Pete clears his throat, suddenly hating this idea. 

“I imagine you thought the worst,” Patrick says, voice low. “I mean, considering that you showed up so quickly.”

Pete nods slowly though Patrick’s not looking. “I thought that it… It sounded a lot like how I used to feel when… You know? I could have written some of that years ago and it terrified me.”

At this, Patrick winces, face scrunched up when he pulls his hand from Pete’s. “Shit, fuck, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Woah!” Pete says, pulling back with his hands raised. “Don’t apologize. Don’t… Just tell me you’re okay.”

Patrick’s gaze finds Pete, a sea of blue among the dark greys and browns of the room, and he shrugs. He looks away as quickly as he had glanced over, finishing off the rest of his beer before Pete realizes he’s lifted the glass again. 

“I’m just sorry I let you down,” he says once he’s done, sighing as he gestures for Danny to fill him up again. Keep drinking, it seems. Keep drinking and maybe they’ll get somewhere tonight. Pete hates the logic but it’s kept Patrick at his side; it’s kept him talking which is more than anything else has done. “Can… Can I say something without you getting mad?”

Pete winces, then nods. “I can try to stay calm.”

“I guess that’s all I can hope for, right?” Patrick scoffs though it doesn’t sound cruel. He runs his hands down his face, the condensation from the glass sticking to his cheeks like sweat or tears. “Okay, well, look. I know you’ve always needed me to be the strong one. No, don’t look like that, it’s true! You said you were… were, I don’t know, protecting me from the spotlight or whatever but it was always in exchange for me protecting you from your own bad thoughts. It was never spoken but, like, everyone knew it. I thought you did, too.” He pauses, breathing shakily, and tries again. “But now the roles are reversed in the worst way because now I need you to be strong in both areas and that’s just not fair. So you can tell me not to apologize but… I do feel sorry for that. Sorry.”

Pete blinks in rapid succession, trying to clear the blurred words from his head before they cause him to explode.

“But you didn’t let me down,” he tries, knowing full well Patrick won’t hear thought he hopes against hopes that this is the one time he does. “Really! You could never.”

Patrick’s smile is dark and cruel, twisted around the rim of a cup that’s been raised once more.

“Tell that to the hiatus,” he says. He drinks again. 

An expected and prodigious silence follows, drink after drink appearing as Patrick shuts down any further attempt at conversation. Everything from casual conversation to deeper proddings disappear into the bottom of Patrick’s glass, each drop swallowed as if it’s the cure to making Pete’s questions go away.

It’s too many drinks and not enough minutes later when the men around the pool table begin to shout, accusing each other of cheating, and end up thrown out with an anticlimactic scolding from Danny and a few of his coworkers. People watch with wide eyes but return to their conversations with a practiced ease, the pool tables left alone and abandoned.

Pete’s mind lights up.

“Hey, Trick,” he says, turning towards Patrick as he slumps over the bar, his status as a lightweight showing when he struggles to look at Pete. “Do you want to play some pool?”

“Pool?” Patrick asks, dragging out the word. His eyebrows furrow together but then he nods dopily, shoving to his feet and sloshing the new drink in his hand. Pete’s heart wrings like hands when he wonders how many nights Patrick’s stumbled around the bar like this, if he had anyone to help him and who that was. These thoughts, though, are easy to shove aside when Patrick nudges him with his shoulder and grins tiredly. “Just like old times.”

Pete smiles. Just like old times.

They set up simply, Patrick declaring stripes before they even start because “the shade of the orange one is prettier than the solids” and Pete doesn’t argue because he likes the way Patrick smiles at his cue stick when he gives in. Back in their band days, when they had the time to visit a bar or the luck to have a table backstage, Pete would be more likely to put up a fight, teasing and pestering Patrick until he gave in and let Pete keep whichever side he’d stolen. Tonight, though, it seems fitting to let Patrick have his choice.

But this doesn’t mean Pete has to let him win.

Halfway in and Patrick’s lack of coordination shows easily, the cue stick digging into the green fabric of the table one too many times and his turn ending with more points for Pete than himself. He keeps good-natured, though, and Pete likes to pretend it has more to do with his presence than it does the alcohol kept within Patrick’s reach at all times.

“Oh, that is definitely cheating,” Patrick says as Pete walks his fingers between two balls and tries to predict the most likely path for them. He looks over in time to see Patrick roll his eyes and he imagines the bitter smile on his face is fond. “Come on, then, let’s see it. Things are gonna start going my way after this, I know it.”

Pete says nothing, aiming the stick and then shooting the purple and green balls on his side into the sacks with a simple flick. Patrick’s jaw-drops— dramatically and overacted— but he rolls his eyes once more and places a hand on his hip.

“I told you it was cheating,” he says, frowning down at the table. He pushes one of his own balls into a nearby sack, Pete pretending to be more upset about it than he really is when Patrick sticks out his tongue. “There. Now it’s fair.”

Patrick’s offended expression when Pete laughs is as expected as the scrunched up napkin tossed at his face but he shows surprise at both anyway.

If he forgets about the blond in Patrick’s hair and the alcohol sticking to his breath like a new favored cologne, he can almost convince himself things haven’t ever changed; he can almost pretend they’re too young to fight about things like death and love.

He can pretend but, when Patrick looks at him strangely— more aware than he should be for a drunk—, he knows better than to fall into such a dangerous trap.

Besides, it’s almost better to know that things have changed but they can still have this. If anything at all, they can have this. 

Pete moves to set up the balls again— he may appreciate the humor but he won’t let Patrick cheat so pettily— but freezes when a familiar chord begins on the overhead speakers. It strikes down into his chest as those familiar words ring out—  _ “Am I more than you bargained for yet?” _ — and he shares a fleeting glance of remembrance with Patrick, both too ashamed to be caught in their own nostalgia. 

“Hey, you both still playing?” A group of other men approach them, a hodgepodge of faces blurring together across the memories currently taking control of Pete’s mind. Vaguely, he feels himself nod, Patrick moving closer to his side. The men take a longer look and the one in front smiles. “You mind if we play with you, then?”

And, like that, the moment passes. 

The song is long over by the time the group has settled in around Pete and Patrick, some newer pop song taking over the radio with a bouncing beat and catchy lyrics Pete would or could never write. They’re playing some version of a tournament, taking turns against each other until a victor can be named. Pete’s out and standing with Patrick on the side, the latter giggling and clinging to the wall as he waits for his turn. They watch the current two playing with a tired enjoyment.

At last, someone knocks the eight ball into a hole and shouts loud enough for a few other patrons to glance over with the amused irritation only drunks wear best. It lasts but a second and then the winner, a tall dark-skinned man reminiscent of Gabe with his easy grin, turns to the rest and demands to know who’s next.

“Alright, I guess that’s me,” Patrick says, passing his glass to Pete before stepping up. “ ‘m the only one who hasn’t gone, right?”

He’s right and Pete doesn’t know how he missed it, his smile sticking from sheer will when Patrick goes up to argue about why he deserves to be stripes. His balance is clearly off and he steadies himself on the table as if no one will notice the way he sways.

Pete swallows down his offer to take his place— if anyone has to lose humiliatingly, he’d rather it be him.

But Patrick’s not a child and Pete’s not in the mood for that conversation tonight.

“Listen, if you shoot a stripe after the break, you can have it all you want,” tall guy says— Pete feels like his name is Bryan but he’s not too certain. He doesn’t sound too upset, thank god, but Patrick still glowers.

“Well that won’t be too fair considering I’m going to beat you before the break is even through,” he says, neck stretching to properly glare at the man above him. Bryan scoffs and tosses the white ball to Patrick.

“All yours, kid,” he says before going to set up the triangle. Patrick makes a childish face at his back and then walks over towards Pete, white ball outstretched.

“Gonna let me take your turn?” Pete asks, smiling nervously when Patrick rolls his eyes. He’s been doing it a lot and only the comfort of seeing him so carefree, albeit drunk, has kept Pete from feeling too annoyed.

“No,” Patrick says like it’s obvious. “I just want you to wish me good luck.”

“Oh, um, good luck?” He tries. People are watching the exchange now, the balls on the table nearly prepared. 

“Not like that,” Patrick says, growing a tad more annoyed. “Just, I don’t know. Blow on the ball. Like they do in the movies.”

Pete’s eyebrows crease together. “That’s dice.”

“Then kiss it,” Patrick says, stepping closer so his arm isn’t held out quite so awkwardly. Pete opens his mouth to object but finds it nearly impossible with Patrick standing so close. His stomach twists like a school child with a newfound crush, the hope that this boy before him will never move from his sight. “Please? For luck?”

And how can Pete deny him that?

Pete steps forward, silent as a breath, and captures Patrick’s wrist in his hand. The pulse beneath Patrick’s delicate pale skin beats against Pete’s palm with all the fragile beauty of a butterfly wing, fluttering and dancing, unaware of the awe all have at its existence.

Everyone may be watching, the whole bar and world and stars may be watching, but Patrick is all that matters when Pete pulls the ball towards his lips and presses a gentle kiss to the side. It’s smooth and cold but Patrick’s eyes are anything but, skipping forward with a fire Pete can only recall from nights they both swore to forget. Pete lets his lips linger when he twists Patrick’s wrist just enough for the tip of Patrick’s thumb to brush against his mouth. It’s a dangerous game but it’s Pete’s favorite one to play; every moment of second-guessing is worth the look on Patrick’s face when he gasps and pulls away, eyes as dark as the insomniac sky outside.

“Now I have to win,” Patrick breathes. They’re simple words but only Pete can hear them and, somehow, that causes his heart to skip a dozen beats. Patrick turns and the ball’s set up so the two can decide who’ll break the triangle. Almost too easily, Patrick wins that decision.

Pete’s lips burn from where Patrick’s thumb had brushed them, his breaths as frazzled as his mind when he lifts his hand— cliched and shaking— to press against that place. It’s similar but it’s not the same— nothing could ever be the same as Patrick.

Patrick’s bending over the table, ready to shoot, and Pete wonders what he meant when he asked for good luck, when he said he had to win. He wonders what part of Patrick’s sober mind is aware of what he’d done and how much of this was nothing but drunken stupor. He wonders of his own actions, the way he’d given in so easily, leaping at the chance to make Patrick’s breath hitch once more. 

He wonders if, tomorrow, he can do it again.

People cheer and shout and Pete blinks, stolen from his reveries when he sees Patrick laughing along with the rest of them, lifted up onto the pool table and waving the cue stick above his head. 

“There’s no way he won that fast,” Pete says to himself. Had time passed so easily? 

Someone to his side, laughing and doubled over at the sight of Bryan’s astonished face, glances up. “He got the eight ball in on the break. Instant win right there.” 

Pete hasn’t heard the rule before but he doesn’t doubt it, smiling in relief as he locks eyes with Patrick. Patrick’s smile grows when their eyes meet and he falls back onto his elbows, searching for the white ball.

“It was good luck!” He cries. He’s happier than Pete’s seen in years and Pete wishes he hadn’t been drinking, prays the memory won’t be fuzzed by beer and all its mistakes. “Told you it was luck!”

Patrick’s flushed and laughing as the other guys gather around to congratulate him, punching his shoulder and asking if he played dumb on purpose. Pete supposes for a second that Patrick might have been hustling all of them but, from the smile on his face and the breathless sound of his voice, he ultimately decides Patrick’s just as surprised as the rest of them.

It’s that same smile and voice that has Pete wishing this moment could last forever. No more blog posts and hate; no more fights and tension. He’d trade all of it for a night of smiles and good luck kisses. He’d trade it all for this.

Hopping off the table, Patrick makes his way towards Pete, parting through the crowd like it’s the Red Sea meant to move for him. He trips into Pete’s chest, dropping the white ball somewhere on the floor without realizing. Pete winces at the noise but keeps the rest of his concentration on keeping Patrick upright.

“Did you see my win?” Patrick asks and Pete can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah,” he says, fighting every urge to brush back Patrick’s sweat-soaked hair. It’s a fight he loses, the end of the darkened strands tickling his palm as he ruffles it affectionately. “You ready to go home?”

Patrick says something that could be a yes, could be a no. Pete takes it as the former and, with a goodbye on his lips and a hand pressed daringly to Patrick’s hip, leads them outside into the crisp night air.

The laughter on their tongues is a familiar sound, a warm feeling emerging in Pete’s chest when Patrick stumbles from giggling too hard at his own stupid jokes. They make it back with little to no trouble, stopping only once when Patrick complains about needing to throw up.

Patrick does more of the dragging once they’re through the door of his house, both shoving off their shoes and then winding up in Patrick’s room, facing each other in his bed. They heave for breath, the walk and laughter catching up to them, but their smiles never fade.

“This was a good idea,” Pete says. Then, “We should change our clothes.”

Patrick groans, shaking his head and burrowing into his pillow. “Don’t wanna change.”

In the dark, Patrick’s more of an abstract shape, an imaginary friend refusing to put on respectable pajamas. In the dark, they could be best friends on tour or lovers deciding the night is still young.

Pete chooses the middle option, a hand landing on Patrick’s waist to pull him close. A wriggle of ease works itself into his veins. For the first time in a long time, he doesn’t question it. They’ll have to change the sheets in the morning and one of them will end up complaining about the smell but, as Patrick snuggles closer to Pete with a drunken glee, Pete has to agree.

He wouldn’t change a thing about this moment. 

~ ~ ~

Moonlit shimmers of sleep cling to Pete’s lashes that night, teasing like little stars but never once allowing him the rest he knows he needs. Patrick’s long since fallen asleep but Pete’s thoughts are aquiver, expanding like infinite universes each time he watches the gentle rise and fall of Patrick’s chest.

He watches, so carefully he’s certain Patrick may wake from the weight of his gaze, and he thinks. 

He watches, and he learns.

In the end, perhaps he’d always seen Patrick as that kid he had a crush on, that kid too small and too good for the world. He’d recognized him as something to be protected, cherished, and Pete had known— or had believed— that this meant his own hands could only ever taint Patrick. 

He knows, too, something he’d always known— like the rest, Patrick had seen Pete as a mess of pills and tabloid rumors but, unlike the rest, this drew Patrick towards him. The way Pete felt he was to protect Patrick, Patrick also felt he was to protect Pete. 

So, it made sense they never worked the way Pete had dreamt they would. Patrick was too busy rushing to Pete’s side and Pete was too busy pushing him away before he could caught in his pain. But Patrick never saw those reasons behind the distance, did he? No, he only ever felt himself being shoved back.

Or, Pete thinks as the stars spin into brighter shades, maybe Patrick was smarter than that. Maybe he knew more than he let on and, maybe, that made it so much worse.

Because Patrick could have seen what Pete was thinking and Pete knows he would have hated. He’d see Pete treating him as a child and nothing more, a fleeting feeling to be rejected without consideration. He’d see Pete hating his love for Patrick; he’d see Pete hating himself.

Maybe that’s what broke the band.

Maybe recognizing that can help them fix it. 

It’s been a long time since Pete’s thought of reuniting them, his hopes saved for more somnolent times such as this, and he can almost imagine this time feels more hopeful than the rest. Now, Patrick— asleep with gentle breaths, the moon’s light brushing across his cheeks— doesn’t look like a child, doesn’t appear as simple as a crush. He doesn’t look the way Pete had imagined he would after a post like that— young and heartbroken and crushed to pieces by a heavy world he was never ready for. He looks just like any other person; he looks like so much more. 

He’s not someone to protect and Pete realizes now that he was wrong for ever thinking that because, he sees, Patrick looks like someone to love. He saw it beneath the dingy lights of some unknown bar, as Patrick smiled and laughed about a victory luck granted him. He saw it with a pool ball pressed against his lips, Patrick’s eyes wide with more than innocence or fear. He’s grown and Pete sees this.

He just wonders what Patrick sees in him.

~ ~ ~

Pete wakes to the serrated shadows and shapes of late morning sun tugging through the shades and curtains hanging from Patrick’s window. Clouds scatter across the images, breaking the monotony of Pete’s thoughts, and drawing his eyes away from the wall. 

Away, and toward Patrick.

Patrick appears as if he’s been awake for far longer than Pete or the sun, curious eyes watching the ceiling as if it may move should he look away. His chest rises and falls with the gentleness of a poem, skin warm and safe under Pete’s hand. And it’s a wonder that Pete’s hand is there at all; Patrick hasn’t changed his clothes from the night before and he hasn’t moved, either. He’s kept still, a line in a song waiting for his beauty to be recognized on another playthrough of the melody, and he’s let Pete’s hand rest upon him throughout the night.

It’s too early to imagine it means something; it’s too late to pretend it doesn’t.

As Patrick keeps silent, it’s easy for Pete to imagine this scene in a different light. After last nights revelations— but are they revelations if he’s known them all along?— he wonders if it’d be alright to roll over, to press his lips to Patrick’s pulse and breathe back in the oxygen he’s denied himself for too long. He wonders how tight his grip on Patrick’s chest— heartlungssoul— can become before a bruise begins to show. He wonders how tightly Patrick will hold him in return.

These thoughts— these thoughts, and more— are abandoned when Patrick sighs softly into the stillness, so carefree that Pete wonders if Patrick’s noticed either of them are awake yet. Pete curls his fingers just a bit and Patrick lifts a hand, lays it down to rest atop of Pete’s.

Silence and stillness and morning air. Pete watches words form on Patrick’s lips long before Patrick thinks to speak.

At last, Patrick mutters something profound. “I dreamed the band was gone.”

Gone. Pete’s writer mind plays with the word choice, the decision to eradicate their music from existence entirely. Gone,  _ gone _ . Not over, no, he dreamt it was gone. As if it never existed to begin with— as if it was never born.

Pete says nothing, waiting for more, but Patrick keeps silent, letting his words linger.

“Was it a nightmare?” Pete asks, forced into voicing a concern. He feels Patrick’s laughter more than he hears it, the subtle rumble of emotion beneath his palm.

“No, I don’t think it was,” Patrick says. Pete’s heart does a silly little twist, a spectacular dive into his stomach, and he chokes on his next breath. Patrick laughs again.

“Well, I don’t know,” Patrick says. “It scared me but I don’t think it was a bad dream. I don’t believe in those, you know. I don’t think there’s such a thing as scary dreams; isn’t that such an oxymoron? Dreams can be scary but that doesn’t always mean they’re bad— they just aren’t over yet.”

Over— another word of finality. Pete hums, hoping he sounds more profound than he feels.

Patrick laughs and it’s a wonderful sound, really, but Pete can’t help but feel that it’s at his own expense. The feeling’s only heightened when Patrick turns to his side to face him, hands reaching to tug Pete’s lips into a smile, thumbs pressed teasingly into the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t look so sad,” he says, perhaps the remnant of that dream hanging onto his soul to make him so light-hearted today. “We still met.”

“We did?” The hopeful tone thrusts ahead of Pete’s common sense, his heart looking shyly back up at its abandoned post when Patrick nods.

“We all met,” he says. “I don’t believe there’s a world out there where we didn’t.”

Patrick says nothing more and Pete has no response to give. His eyes catch on the light in Patrick’s grin and he tries to recall the last time Patrick smiled at him like that.

He tries to recall if Patrick ever did.

~ ~ ~

Friends are the third most important things to Pete next to his heartbeat and love. 

Somehow, simply cooking together in the kitchen and quoting lines from The Dark Knight Rises, Patrick becomes all three. 

“God,” Pete laughs after Patrick’s rather impressive Bane impression, questioning why he thought it would be a good idea to take him to see it. “you’d make a great villain.”

“I really wouldn’t.” Patrick shakes his head with a disbelieving laugh of his own, looking down at the task of slicing bell peppers. He’d been wanting something spicy for dinner but, seeing as he had next to nothing left in his cupboards, Pete had subjected him to bell pepper duty with the promise of mixing it into some kind of soup.

“No, you would,” Pete pushes, not paying half as much attention to the onions he’s dicing up across from Patrick at the island in the kitchen. “And all because you’re a sucker for those stupid cheesy villain lines. Like, what’s the one you just said? The one about the dark and—”

“You merely adopted the dark,” Patrick says in a suddenly low voice, hand cupped around his mouth to create an echo effect. It can’t be a good idea for cooking but, Pete thinks, it is endearing. “I was born in it.”

“Yeah, that,” Pete says, lips quirked up in a grin as Patrick shakes his head again. “It literally came out, like, a whole week ago and all you’ve done is quote the villain.”

“Well,” Patrick says, glancing up beneath yellow strands of hair, the glint of blue stopping Pete’s heart. “I mean, if we’re being honest, it kinda just reminds me of you.”

Patrick’s face is a rosy shade but Pete’s feels like fire. “Me? Are you insinuating that I’m going to burn down the city and—”

“No, just,” Patrick sets aside his knife, wiping his hands off on his jeans as he looks at Pete. “Your lyrics, you know? You have that sort of dark dramatic to what you write, that’s all. Or, I guess, you used to. I don’t know if you’re still writing.”

“I’m always writing.” Not quite a truth and not yet a lie. Pete constructs entire novels in his mind about Patrick’s smile, he just doesn’t remember to write it down. He looks away from Patrick’s gaze, suddenly obsessed with the last half of onion left. “What about, uh, you? Are you still writing?”

He looks up long enough to watch Patrick realize the new trajectory of the conversation, away from movies and back into more dismal discussions. Patrick tenses, his frown stiff.

“What, like lyrics?” He asks. Pete shrugs.

“Like, anything.”

Patrick’s silent long enough that Pete’s shield of onion distraction fades away with fifteen even cuts, his gaze averted when Pete looks back up.

“Well, like you said,” Patrick says, his voice a warning sign Pete never reads right on the first try, “I’m always writing.”

Not quite a truth and not yet a lie. Pete wonders what Patrick’s thoughts are.

Shadows streak across the wall when Patrick turns, tossing his peppers into the pot Pete had set out before. The dark impressions cover the window, shading the moonlit scene outside, and Pete finds them easier to look at than Patrick, as bad as that makes him feel.

He almost asks what Patrick means, if he has anything more to share. The tune of that older song he’d played still echoes through Pete’s mind, his favorite song simply because he knows he’s the only other person who knows it exists. He wants to ask what Patrick’s music is about, the question posed like a journalist’s golden ticket when he thinks of how to phrase such a thing— what emotions are embedded in the opening notes? What piece of his soul is tied in the chorus? What memory, what fear, what lover lost has he torn apart and made anew within the confines of a studio and song? 

Why does Patrick write and who, if anyone, is he writing for?

Pete softly presses his lips together. He knows better than to destroy such a pleasant time with brash impulse, no matter how long it took him to learn.

Instead, he approaches the same wonderings in a different way.

“Soul Punk was good,” he says, carrying his cutting board of onions to the stove and tossing them into the pot. “I didn’t say that earlier and I should have but… I like it.”

Patrick barks out a cruel laugh but he doesn’t move, doesn’t seem afraid. “You’re the only one who does.”

_ Not true _

Pete doesn’t say it. He’s not in the mood to argue tonight.

“I’ve listened to it a few times, actually, and—” He pauses and Patrick tenses, perhaps wondering what interpretation Pete found. “— I just wanted to know where you got your inspiration.”

This is safe; Patrick shrugs, relaxing an inch, and this is good.

“I don’t even know,” he admits, rubbing at his arm as if Pete’s words had been a blow. “Society, I guess? I know that sounds, like, really super snobby but it all really was just a stupid cynical commentary on all the things that piss me off in the world. Obviously, it didn’t come across that way because, apparently, everyone wants inner turmoil from the guy in the emo band.” He scoffs, facing Pete. There’s a harsh light in his eye but it’s something more than pain and Pete can exult in that alone.

“It’s not that,” Pete says. “I mean, I guess that was a part but, really, you’re, like… No one expects the cynicism from you.”

Patrick presses a hip into the counter beside him, arms crossed. 

“Yeah, well, maybe people should learn not to expect anything from me.” He pauses, chewing on his lip, before he huffs out a laugh and turns back to the simmering soup, running a hand through his hair as he stirs it. “You know, I thought you might have gotten it? If it was something we did together or… I don’t know. Maybe you could have made it better.”

It doesn’t warm Pete the way it might have to hear Patrick express a need for Pete, no matter how indirectly. It stings, instead, a harsh prick against his nerves that says  _ you did this. _

“It was supposed to be made by you. I wouldn’t ever want to mess with that,” Pete says softly, fighting not to drop his gaze to the ground as he forces himself to ask about another point that tears at his chest. “What about your new band? Didn’t you toss ideas back and forth with them?”

Patrick sighs, the sound like smoke as it covers what sheen of sincerity is hidden beneath.

“They weren’t a  _ new  _ band, Pete,” Patrick says, nearly chiding. “We weren’t even really a band. At least, not like Fall Out Boy was. I mean, we toured and we were friends but I didn’t have anything with them the way I did with you guys.”

Patrick’s voice is neon and concrete. One sentence flashes with impossible emotion, shining and calling all to gawk and stare at the unreal display of something more than mere light; another sentence burns with the cracking intensity of hitting the ground after falling for hours.

“So, did you—” Pete begins only to be cut off.

“Yeah, of course I missed you guys,” Patrick says, snappy as if he can’t wait for the sentence to be over and done with. He turns down the stove and places a lid on top of the pot, turning towards Pete with a softer look in his eyes than Pete might have expected had he been foolish enough to expect anything. “I missed you all  _ so much _ . I didn’t realize how lonely it would be without you.”

_ You _ . Another question rests on Pete’s tongue and he can’t trust himself to keep it hidden.

_ You _ .

“Oh my god.” Patrick laughs, embarrassed and ashamed as he turns away with flaming cheeks and gleaming eyes. “Fuck, I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for things to get so goddamn depressing.”

“No, it’s fine, it’s—” Pete reaches out, barely brushes Patrick’s arm but still feels the shock of a decade trembling through his fingertips at the touch. Patrick freezes; can he feel it, too? A question for another time. “Do you still feel that way? Lonely?”

Patrick doesn’t turn; he doesn’t look at Pete.

He raises his hand and lays it over Pete’s fingers, easing the shock between them as simply as night tugging over a restless city. 

“Of course not.” He says it like some arcane promise and, in a way, it is exactly that. Still, Pete presses forward, always needing more.

“So how do you feel?” He asks.

Patrick’s fingers curl of their own accord, stunned by the question as he finally looks to Pete with a thousand answers in his eyes— none of which Pete has the power to read, not if Patrick isn’t ready to say one of them. Funny, how Patrick keeps secrets even in his most exposed moments.

“I don’t know,” Patrick admits after a long while. “But I think it’s almost good.”

~ ~ ~

There’s always something astonishing in the simplicity which follows their soul-baring conversations. Sometimes it’s lyrics and sometimes it’s fists and fights and hands and lips.

Sometimes, it’s Patrick sitting next to him on a bed with a book open in his lap, both boys dressed and glowing beneath the amber-colored lights. Pete toys with his own hobby of tracing meaningless shapes onto a pad of paper, pretending they’re words Patrick could sing again one day, but his pencil has long stilled. Beside him, Patrick stares at a page he hasn’t turned in five minutes and Pete is stuck in this gentle pause, this little lull in the lives they’ve led so far.

When Patrick speaks, it’s with all the clumsy awkwardness Pete feels shifting beneath his skin.

“Pete,” Patrick says, still staring at a page of some forgotten play. “Why are you here?”

Something witty flares with a familiar heat into Pete’s mouth, pressing against the back of his teeth as he imagines every way to deflect the question. 

He swallows it down. He puts his notebook aside, hands shaking, and stares at the blanket covering both him and Patrick.

“I was scared,” he says with slow words. “Scared that I’d lost you to something horrible like—”

“That’s not really why you’re here.” Patrick shuts his own book and puts it away. Pete hears him shift but he still won’t look over to see those condemning blue eyes, that seeking gaze with the power to pull out whatever answer it wants. “I  _ know  _ that’s not really why you’re here. I didn’t want to ask before but it’s been long enough so… Why?”

Pete shuts his eyes, the corner of his lip caught between his teeth, and he imagines he can feel Patrick’s breaths and questions filling the room.

“It’s not a lie,” he says, at last, opening his eyes and only watching Patrick from the corner of them. Pale and blonde and perfect, it’s not fair he’s still so captivating. “I  _ was  _ scared I’d lost you. Maybe… Maybe not to, like, death or something but… It felt like you had changed. In your post, you sounded lost and… And I wanted to come help find you.”

Patrick scoffs and Pete doesn’t need to look to see the wrinkle in his nose, the embarrassed twist of his lips. 

“Find me?” He asks. Fear and reluctance collide in Pete’s heart as he nods.

“Yeah.”

Patrick’s silent a moment longer but he doesn’t scoff again so it can’t be as bad as Pete feels.

Finally, Patrick speaks in a tone that’s almost fond. “How self-centered.”

Pete’s heart beats with the precision of a more skilled bass player, his pulse thrumming with music written by Patrick’s hands. 

“What?” He says, trying to make it sound like a joke. It falls flat, though, like an inside line spoken to the wrong person or at the wrong time. “Don’t you trust me?”

“In some things. Yes,” Patrick says.

At last, Pete turns to face him, taking in the fading blond hair and the pale shaking hands. “Do you trust me to be here? To protect you? To make sure that, that none of that old mess happens ever again? Would you trust me with that?”

Patrick won’t turn to look at him, won’t even pretend like he wants to. Eyes ahead and throat trembling with quick swallows and unsure words, Patrick watches the wall across the room like it’s playing out what Pete’s said. As if he can see the shades of Folie’s music scattered across the wall, the reviews written in the speckled mess of shadows and lights. Perhaps Soul Punk’s squares litter the area around it, drawing Patrick’s eye to the more recent past; or maybe he’s caught on everything that happened between the two, the fights and the sudden silence.

When Patrick speaks, it’s as he’s barely breathing. 

“I’ve always trusted you,” he says, somehow twisting even these kind words into a bitter sound. “More than I always knew I should.”

Dramatics and shame bring Pete’s shoulders down in a slouch, his lips twitching with the uncertainty of laughing and sobbing.

“More than everyone knew you should,” he says. His eyes drop to the blankets, the nonsensical patterns of stitches and strings. “I guess it’s not my place to apologize for that but… Fuck, we never spoke about what was wrong or right with what we were— friends or whatever else. We never  _ had  _ to speak about it. We used to be so damn close… Our conversations were smiles and lyrics and now they’re  _ this _ .” He spits the words out one at a time, letting each one sting his tongue before tainting the air, pointedly ignoring Patrick’s frown at them.

“I don’t know. I think I might prefer it this way,” he says. “Don’t… Don’t say anything stupid about it but I actually do like talking with you. And while we’re confessing our regrets… I don’t regret the way things ended between us. It hurt like hell but—”

“Oh, please,” Pete snaps without meaning to, leftover pain from sudden radio silence and endless arguments racing through his mind before any rationality can. “We all hated the end. Don’t lie to me about that.”

“I’m not.” Spots of red appear on Patrick’s cheeks— whether from indignation or embarrassment, Pete’s not sure. He twists his hands in the bed covers until his knuckles are white, face turned so Pete can only see his blazing blush. “Whatever. That was leading up to an apology, you know.”

This catches Pete’s attention and he sits up straighter, leaning towards Patrick the way he might have before they became outcast from each other’s lives— ex-friends with a world of baggage between them. 

“An apology? What for?” He has his guesses but the more doubtful side of his heart wants to hear Patrick say it— if only to prove how skewed the other’s view on the situation was.

Any and all fight seems to drain from Patrick as the questions fill the air, his hands releasing the blankets and instead tapping out a soundless beat atop them.

“What else? For making you choose. Me or the lyrics, right? Me or the—”

_ —lyrics, Pete! Me or those stupid lies you call love songs. Write those words for me and mean it or you’re never getting another song from me again, I swear it!  _

Pete hears the remnants of conflict before Patrick’s done speaking, the screaming matches and broken cries.

“Anyway,” Patrick continues, shaking Pete away from his thoughts. “That wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have tried to make you choose and I sure as hell shouldn’t have pretended to know what the answer would be. I was… I was so certain you would pick me… And I know that sounds selfish and I know it was selfish but, at the time, I couldn’t even try to understand. And I’m sorry I let that tear us apart. I’m sorry I let it take the band away.” Though none fall from his eyes, the sound of tears and sobs thicken Patrick’s voice so clearly that Pete imagines he can see the painful knot forming in his throat.

A million responses line up before Pete— an endless number of options promising to soothe the pain for the next day or week.

But one answer hides away. One sentence peeks out from where he’d tucked it the day Patrick walked off, something he should have said but was too afraid to. It was easier to pretend such words didn’t exist, to imagine he’d never have to think them at all.

Tonight, though, they glow. 

Pete sinks his nails into it, refusing to let go.

“I’m sorry for making the wrong decision,” he says, not missing the way Patrick jolts in shock, the way Patrick looks at him and then promptly turns away with cheeks flaming even redder than before. “I’d always choose you, you know. Even if it seems like I’m not… Everything I’ve done, I’ve done with you in mind.”

Patrick’s lips part as if he plans to speak but, just as quickly, they shut and he shakes his head, more to himself than to Pete’s words.

Still, Pete reacts as if the denial was for him, racing ahead with his heart in his hands, bleeding and prepared to stop at the first sign of trouble.

“Did you ever regret what he had? Even if it led to this entire mess and chaos… Did you hate the moments we had together?” Every pulse in his body pounds like it might burst, a dam with emotions begging to break through.

Slowly, Patrick smiles.

At last, Patrick looks at him and something warm burns like a fire in his eyes.

“I wanted to hate a lot of things,” he says, each word perfectly calculated and weighed on his lips, passing over to Pete’s with the gentleness only Patrick’s voice can have in a moment like this. “But I could never bring myself to hate anything to do with you. I could never regret what we had.”

He doesn’t ask if Pete feels the same and Pete wonders if it’s because he already knows the answer. Pete’s lost count of how many times he’s dreamt of their stolen moments, borrowed promises as they pressed together in darkened places behind stages or shared their secrets in too small bunks. Already, Pete’s thinking of the sweat and lips and words— the promises of forever compressed into the five minutes they could steal, the ten seconds they could pretend was an infinity. Already, his tongue aches for the familiar taste of Patrick’s skin, and his body burns for Patrick’s heat— his being, his heart, his soul…

He moves closer without thinking, without noticing— only realizing when he makes out the specks of gold scattered throughout Patrick’s eyes.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Patrick whispers, breathes, swears. His eyelashes flutter, shadows cascading down Patrick’s cheeks like tears when he leans his head closer, his body angling towards Pete as if shifting into a more natural state. “I’m glad we had the chance to—”

“Me, too.” Pete’s words are hot and heavy in his mouth. “I’ve missed you too much.”

Patrick glances up and licks his lips, something burning in his gaze the way it hasn’t since before the break. 

The break. Pete’s heart pounds with the months, days, minutes wasted without the man before him. After years of pretending he didn’t— couldn’t— care anymore, he’s staring down at Patrick like they never stopped. 

The next time Patrick moves to lick his lips, Pete grabs hold of his chin and presses against him in a kiss. Chaste and sweet, just a brush of something longing for more. 

More comes in the shape of Patrick’s hand in the collar of Pete’s shirt, tugging him forward with another hand cradling around the back of Pete’s neck. Hungry and sloppy, sliding together until they find the right angle— the right click, the right position for the puzzle pieces to match. Patrick pushes forward, closer, his legs a leg between Pete’s as he rolls over. His sighing breaths and his whining gasps tighten a warm coil in Pete’s chest, traveling down to collect in his guts. Pete pants, light-headed as his blood and brain become nothing but  _ PatrickPatrickPatrick— _

Patrick grinds down on Pete’s leg, lips still pressed to Pete’s with a desperation Pete can’t describe but feels coursing through his own being. His hands find Patrick’s ass, cupping and pulling him closer. 

“Do you want this?” He breathes, amazed he still has breath in his lungs. Nerves taint the coolness of the words, shaking them until they’re an unsteady plea on his tongue.

Patrick pulls back, face flushed and eyes bright with a familiar lust. “I want  _ you _ .”

Pete means to reply, to echo the sentiment, but it’s lost in a guttural groan when Patrick’s hand presses down on Pete’s cock, tenting the pajama pants he’d borrowed from Patrick’s drawer. Between kisses, Patrick shifts until he’s sprawled across Pete, a leg on either side of Pete’s and his clothed cock pressed into Pete’s groin. He grinds down; Pete bucks up.

They kick at sheets and displace pillows as they rub against each other, too many layers of clothing between them but desperation making it impossible to move away from their current positions. Sweat and spit collect on Pete’s lips as he marks Patrick’s neck, the vibrations of Patrick’s frantic whines beating against his tongue when he licks a long stripe across his throat. He savors the taste of Patrick, the touch of soap and something more— something that could be music, melodic in its complexities.

He grips Patrick’s hand, his curses and moans adding to Patrick’s symphonic gasps and cries, pulling him closer. Patrick kisses him again, whispering words that could be pleas or Pete’s name, the sound never lasting for longer than the first letter before he’s moaning again. His skin is damp with sweat when Pete runs his hands beneath Patrick’s shirt and down his back, trailing his spine down to his ass, slipping a finger between his cheeks.

“Pete, Pete, Pete—” Definitely his name now on Patrick’s lips, definitely a cry for something Pete’s dying to give. Patrick’s own name may be on Pete’s tongue but he can’t be sure, waves of pleasure rolling through his body, the only warning he gets before release hits him like the opening notes of a song— relentless, overpowering, no room to escape. He arches and cries out for Patrick, nails tearing up and down Patrick’s back.

Patrick follows seconds later, grunting and panting with a wide open mouth. He sags against Pete when he’s done, still but for his heaving breaths. Half-lidded with rosy cheeks and kiss-swollen lips, dopey wonder in his eyes, Patrick’s everything Pete’s feeling.

Together in silence, Pete strokes Patrick’s cheek with a gentle finger, drawing hearts and promises in the sweat dripping from his hair. His limbs are heavy, tired, but everything is perfect.

And then Patrick tenses. And everything goes wrong.

The pleasured look falls from Patrick’s eyes when he shoves Pete’s hands away, rolling off of him and clambering out of the bed as if he can’t get away fast enough. In place of wonder and joy is something closed off, something impossible to read— something Patrick doesn’t want Pete to see.

But, beneath it, Pete sees hesitation. Behind the suddenly distant eyes, the screwed up mouth, there’s reluctance and uncertainty.

It’s only a moment, though, and then Patrick’s gone.

~

Seconds of passing time collect on Pete like fleas on an alley cat. The hours chill him with the unmerciful proof that Patrick’s yet to return, yet to show his face in his own bedroom. Pete shudders with the need to be warmed, his body begging to be touched.

It’s only when it’s past midnight that Pete drags himself to his feet, wincing at the now cool dampness sticking his brief and pants to his legs. It brings with it the hot shame of what he’d done and the reactions that followed. 

He swallows down the need to throw up, imagining he can taste bile in the back of his throat when he walks down the stairs to Patrick’s living room.

Patrick’s on the couch, the way Pete already knew he would be. The lights are out, the TV’s off, and— with his knees drawn up to his chin, his arms wrapped tightly around them— Patrick looks so small. He doesn’t look Pete’s way as Pete grows closer and he doesn’t move when Pete sits next to him, his breaths mere whispers of what they could be.

Pete doesn’t look at him, either, his words as stiff as he feels. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you, though?” Patrick asks. He doesn’t sound as angry as Pete had expected, barely any emotions painting his tone. “Are you really sorry?”

Pete bites his tongue, refusing to answer. 

Somehow, Patrick laughs. It’s a soft sound, hardly amused, but Pete looks at him with faint surprise all the same.

“Good,” Patrick says, answering Pete’s non-verbal response. “Because I’m not sorry, either.”

Pete blinks— once, twice, a dozen times— but Patrick says nothing more, a pondering gaze in his eyes as he stares down at the rhythm his fingertips are tapping out against the back of his hands, folded together as they are. If Pete watches long enough, he can imagine he hears the beat, that the silence isn’t so insufferable. It’s late, though, and the back-and-forth of Patrick’s fingers draws his eyelids down, pulls his head to Patrick’s shoulder without thinking.

“What are you thinking?” He asks, half-curious and half-hoping it’ll keep him awake. His voice is low, tired, and he almost swears he feels the shivers that go through Patrick’s body at the sound.

Patrick takes too long to answer, going still and waiting until Pete’s nearly asleep again. 

“I think I want to write some music,” he says, at last. “When… When you kissed me and when you touched me, I heard this silly melody in my head. It was just a quick tune but it felt like it was asking me… God, I know this sounds stupid but it felt like it was asking me to find the rest of it.”

“Not stupid,” Pete slurs, drunk with drowsiness, the warmth of Patrick’s body bleeding into him and comforting every unease he’s felt tonight. “Do you think you’ll write it?”

“I don’t know.” Patrick shrugs, nearly tossing Pete’s head off until one of his hands comes up to press against Pete’s head, keeping him in place. Pete does his best not to nuzzle into the touch but something about his exhaustion promises he might have done as much anyway. “If I have the right words, maybe. I just… I’m scared. I don’t want any of those old aches to become new again.”

Silence reigns but Pete overthrows it with a sigh and a shift, pulling himself forward to reach for the notebook and pen stashed beneath the couch, a sign of the times before he was welcomed into Patrick’s bed and trust. 

It’s an older notebook with a mess of lyrics inside, an entire confessional booth made up of paper and lead and ink. His own voice screams back at him with each dying word, each fading syllable on every page. His world spins and he struggles to face Patrick, tossing the notebook into his lap as if passing the madness onto someone else.

Patrick catches it easily, though his eyebrows furrow together at the act. “What—”

“Just write what you’re thinking,” Pete says with a wry smile. “You’re not going to get any lyrics any other way. Trust me.” 

Patrick’s brows grow even closer together, his eyes squinting down at the black-covered book. “But I’m not really thinking about anything. Not right now. Besides, not all of us force inspiration to come; I wait for mine to show up, you know that.”

Pete does know that but he doesn’t know in what sense Patrick’s speaking. He doesn’t know if Patrick’s angling the pen towards him, asking him to take control and write the words he did back when they were young; he doesn’t know if Patrick’s asking him to leave, telling him he’s wrong, turning his back on music once again.

It’s the last idea that has Pete panicking, reaching for the book and pen in his sleepy haze, tearing open a new page and scrawling down a mess of words.

_ My old aches become new again _

“There,” he says. A compromise— not quite his words and not quite Patrick’s writing. “You can start there.”

Patrick stares at the words with a soft sort of shock, something fond keeping it from being too harsh. His cheeks are pink again, glowing with emotion, and Pete stands before he does something stupid like kiss the roses painted across pale skin.

“Good luck.” Barely a whisper but Patrick nods all the same, the pen in his hand now as Pete ventures off to the bedroom. 

Pete doesn’t remember falling into the bed, pants and briefs changed. He doesn’t remember shutting his eyes or deciding to dream.

But, somehow, he opens his eyes to Patrick crawling into the bed beside him, the sky still dark around them and a melody of nonsense haunting the air.

_ Na na na na na na na na na na _

A happier tune than Pete might have imagined. It’s exciting, it’s promising.

It’s hope in Patrick’s voice.

~

_ Pete hopes and he wishes and maybe he prays. He tugs on the threads clinging to each other, each one proof that things are not as bad as they might have been. He begs and he pleads and he offers gratitude. _

_ Most of all, though, he dreams. _

_ He dreams he’s back onstage with the band— his band— and that they’re playing songs that will outlive them all. It’s not quite right, the way all dreams aren’t, but it isn’t quite wrong, either. Songs and notes dance through the atmosphere on some asymmetrical and non-linear realm and it’s Pete’s understanding— or, perhaps, his misunderstanding— that this is merely how it sounds to everyone else but him. _

_ In dreams like these, Joe’s guitar strings wrap like snakes around his wrists, embedded into his skin like the next addition to his tattoos. Andy’s drumsticks appear more like claws extending from his hands, beating into the nearest surface. Pete’s own bass strings are like dog teeth into the pads of his fingers, turning to bite the hand that’s neglected to feed it. _

_ And Patrick.  _

_ Patrick lingers on the edge of the stage, always a step too far for Pete to reach. An outsider to the band, peering in even as he sings its legacy, critiques in his eyes and a warm fire in his voice. _

_ He’s blonde in these dreams but not always the same shade and not always in the same way. Sometimes it’s his eyelashes that flutter with yellow specks, lighter than even his pale skin; sometimes it’s the way he pronounces his words, spinning gold from Pete’s rambling yarns. _

_ Mostly, though, it’s his smile. And his smile, in these dreams, is like an amusement park ride, at best. Always moving and catching the sun’s glint in the corners of his twists and turns. _

_ At worst, it is light and dark. Dawn and dusk, spinning end over end so fast that it becomes a blur. The great black sadness that Pete saw when he first arrived and all the warming suns he used to associate with Patrick become one and the same.  _

_ Tonight, Pete takes a step forward; tonight, marching on like a zombie, he moves toward Patrick.  _

_ He feels like there’s a sign on his back when he’s walking toward him, like the whole world has stopped to stare at this moment. Everyone he knows reaches out to him, to pull him aside for some all important conversation where they can pretend to figure him out.  _

_ Pete doesn’t want to figure himself out. _

_ In this dream, Patrick doesn’t move away. He smiles, glowing and ethereal, and Pete feels as if the stage has been pulled out from under him. But, this time, he doesn’t want to clear up any confusion. He doesn’t want to clarify black or white; he’s addicted to the blur. _

_ As he walks toward Patrick, he’s a plane finally landing after a storm. He’s a kiss on a long-lost lover’s throat. He’s the relief of a ravine after falling off the cliff. _

_ When it all slows down, it’s just him and Patrick in a darkness so great Pete can’t remember how big the room is. He feels asleep; he feels awake. He can barely remember his own name. _

_ When morning calls and some part of him begins to wake, he stumbles and disrupts the night’s plan— he remember the night may never have had a plan, at all. _

_ Another in-between, another awake-and-asleep. His knuckles are numb from how tightly he’s gripping his instrument, knees buckling from walking and not moving all night. His throat’s sore from all the words he didn’t say and his lips are on fire from every missed opportunity. _

_ “It’s okay,” Patrick says in these dreams, and when he speaks it feels like an eternity. “It’s okay.” _

_ ~ _

It’s hard for Pete to remember the last time he had a movie night of any sort. Over the past year or so, it’s become less of a luxury and more of a weekly occurrence, plopped down in front of his TV in sweats and blankets he hasn’t taken the time to wash. He knows he’s seen at least twelve different movies since beginning this unofficial tradition but none of the settings stand out— same posture, same clothes, same hollow ache in his gut. All that changes is what’s on the screen.

What he remembers in vivid detail, though, is the last time he had a movie night with Patrick.

They had just finished a show on the Folie tour, the two of them filling the bus with their rotten bitterness over the amount of glow sticks that had been malevolently tossed their way that night. Patrick was curled up on the couch, a rounded bunch of anger and shame as he hid away beneath oversized headphones and shirts that seemed a bit too small. Pete had hit the wall enough times for the driver to threaten to kick him off, rockstar or not, and Pete had sworn at him. It didn’t matter, anyhow, everyone and their mom already knew Pete was a diva at that point.

Everyone but Patrick. Patrick would learn it later but, that night, when Pete held up a DVD copy of  _ The Dark Knight _ , Patrick simply accepted him as a friend. 

Suddenly they were curled up together, quoting the film back and forth as the bus rumbled down the road, encouraging them to turn the volume up higher and higher. At one point, there was a mad scramble across the couch for the remote as someone— Pete swears to this day that it was Patrick— sat on it, switching the input to a staticy screen. They were laughing, the cinematic soundtrack stuck in both of their heads, and Patrick ended up on top of Pete at one point, pinning him down with nothing more than a wicked grin.

“Got you,” he’d said. “I got you.”

It was more true than either of them knew at that point. Only the coppery glint of Patrick’s eyes in the bus’s half-light gave away any hint that such a thing could ever be.

Tonight— Tonight was nothing like that.

Pete dips his hands into the soapy, sudsy water again as he rinses off the bowl he and Patrick had used for popcorn while watching some comedy movie Pete can’t remember the name of. He’d fallen asleep right in the middle, not at all romantic, and he’d woken up with his pressed against Patrick’s shoulder.

Patrick had smiled when he’d noticed Pete was awake, his eyes still on the end credits even as he ran a hand softly through Pete’s hair.

That was the moment, Pete thought, when they should have talked about what had happened the night before— the kiss and everything else. But Patrick’s eyes had been so peaceful, his breaths had been gentle hums that could have been songs, and Pete couldn’t bring himself to disturb that.

Pete huffs and dumps the bowl onto the counter beside the sink. Always an excuse.

Patrick’s back in the living room rearranging couch cushions and folding blankets while Pete washes dishes in the kitchen, giving them both time to wonder best to approach the topics of sex and romance. Or, more accurately, it’s given Pete time to accept it’s a subject that’s best left alone.

Behind him, the sound of soft padding footsteps draws him away from his thoughts. He bites the tip of his tongue, listening as Patrick tries to sneak up on him. 

“Done with the couch cushions, Trick?” He asks when Patrick finally presses up behind him, peering over his shoulder. He’s not close enough that they’re touching but Pete can feel the warmth of his body against him, can calculate how far back he’d have to lean before he and Patrick are connected at every point. 

Patrick snorts lightly, possibly more at the nickname than the actual words. Pete waits for the inevitable bitter remark, the sour twist that everything from the night before was part of a dream or wishful imagination.

Instead, Patrick wraps his arms around Pete— searing, burning— and Pete’s breath hitches in his throat as he shuts off the kitchen sink.

Patrick’s quiet for a long while, his nose smushed against the back of Pete’s neck and muffling his words slightly when he finally decides to speak. “I still don’t know why you’re here.”

He sounds lost, alone, and Pete’s instincts rush ahead of his rationality. 

“To make sure you’re okay,” he says, the answer he’s been giving both Patrick and himself for far too long. “To help you feel better.”

Patrick’s arms tighten around Pete; he turns so his cheek is on Pete’s neck now, his words directed at the empty space around them.

“Why did you kiss me last night?” 

Patrick doesn’t sound like he’s searching for any one answer but Pete still chokes down every word that crawls up his throat. There’s only one response he can give, only one truth that rings out as purer than the rest, but it doesn’t fit with the moment. He can’t say those things when Patrick’s not looking at him or when his hands are covered in dish soap. He can’t admit to anything when he hasn’t even confessed it to himself yet.

Pete wipes his hands off on his pants and then unhooks Patrick’s arms from around him, turning slowly and in tune with Patrick’s choked off whine.

“Because,” he says, drawing out the space between the words, “it just felt right. It always feels right when it’s with you. You might hate me for saying it but being here… It’s reminded me of every lyric I’ve ever written for you, every song I’ve ever wanted you to sing.” He drags his fingers down Patrick’s cheeks, caressing him like he’s the last of some endangered species— something real fading into myth before his eyes. 

Patrick grabs onto Pete’s wrists, stilling his motions, and blinks up with a gaze that’s only half satisfied. 

“And, now?” He asks in something even more subtle than a whisper. “Does it still feel right?”

“Of course,” Pete breathes, distracted by the way Patrick’s cheeks have gone a pale pink in the past few seconds. They pull apart at once but then, at the last moment, pause and watch each other once again.

Patrick doesn’t move when Pete brushes his hair back, when Pete presses his lips to Patrick’s in a warm and lingering touch. Eyes shut tight, Patrick trembles against him, pushing forward with the gentleness of a summer breeze. Even when Pete pulls back, Patrick’s hand is on the back of his neck and his breath is sighing against Pete’s skin.

“It’s okay,” he says, eyes still shut. “It’s okay if you’re only doing this to make me feel better.”

“What?” Pete tries to pull away once more but he’s stuck between Patrick and the counter, kept in place by his own shock. “Patrick, I’m not—”

“It’s okay. I promise.”

Heated frustration fills Pete’s veins and thoughts, each bit of it spurred on by the insecurity lacing Patrick’s voice. All these years, all this time, and he still believes something like this is pity?

“It’s not okay. Because it’s not true,” Pete says, grabbing hold of Patrick’s chin and forcing their eyes to meet. Patrick’s eyes widen, his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he takes in Pete’s words. “Now, I’m going to kiss you again and, this time, you’re going to believe that I mean it.”

“Pete, ple—”

Patrick’s words are lost in Pete’s mouth over his, Pete’s hands reaching to tangle in his hair. Pete doesn’t start gentle this time, doesn’t linger on anything other than Patrick’s whining breaths and his own racing heart. Hands scramble against shirts and skin, searching for the best way to take the other in completely.

Pete moves to Patrick’s jaw, his teeth scraping across the skin there, and Patrick shudders even as his hips rock against him, Pete’s cock giving a twitch of interest. Pete pushes back, pulling apart long enough to lift Patrick— lighter than he looks, more submissive to the handling than he’d been before— onto the center island. 

Pete presses Patrick’s shoulders until he’s leaning back, propped up by his elbows and staring at Pete with flushed cheeks and dark eyes. Pete fits himself between Patrick’s legs, one hand in Patrick’s shirt to tug him forward into another kiss, their lips twisting against each other with no pattern or coordination. His other hand trails down Patrick’s stomach, across his hips, before landing in his lap. He cups Patrick’s hardened dick, smiling at Patrick’s responding gasp.

Patrick moans into Pete’s mouth, his eyes shut as Pete palms him through his sweats, Patrick’s hips jerking in a greedy search for more friction. Pete’s lips slip away from Patrick’s, trailing down his neck, biting and sucking bruises onto the tender skin of his throat. 

“Pete,” Patrick gasps, a sheen of sweat already beginning to form on his face when Pete looks up. His hips jerk, his face red. “Pete, please, I—”

“Yeah,” Pete says. He lifts his hand from where he’d been palming Patrick, grinning lightly at the disappointed groan he receives in response, and dips his fingertips into the elastic band of Patrick’s sweats, looking up at him with an eyebrow raised. “This good?”

“Fuck, of course it is,” Patrick snaps. “But, what does this— Why—?”

“Because,” Pete says, pulling back to tug Patrick’s pants down, mouth drying when Patrick’s cock— hard and already leaking pearls of precome— springs free. “There’s something I want to tell you but—”

“What is it?” Patrick asks between breaths.

_ I think you were right about all those love songs. I think I’m writing another one right now. _

Pete shakes his head, running his knuckles across Patrick’s dick to distract him. “Doesn’t matter right now. Just let me focus on making you feel good.”

Dark brown eyes on ocean blue, Pete parts Patrick’s legs until every bit of him is revealed, until Patrick’s face is as red as the tip of his dick. Pete lowers himself between him and, eyes still on Patrick, gives his cock a long, languid lick. Patrick gasps and groans at once, choking on his own voice, and Pete smiles as he does it again, adding a hand to slowly stroke Patrick until he’s bucking his hips and begging Pete for more.

“Fucking hell, Pete, I swear,” Patrick cries, fingertips scrambling across the smooth surface of his kitchen counter— Pete tries not to think of the setting and it’s easy to forget about cleanliness when Patrick tosses his head back, moaning out his pleas. “Pete, I need more, I need—”

“Will you admit that it was stupid to say I’m doing this out of pity?” Pete asks, pausing at the base of Patrick’s dick and pinching it to keep him from coming. He keeps his mouth close to the tip, his hot breaths brushing down Patrick’s cock. “Can you say that, maybe, just maybe, I’m here because I actually want to be? Because I care about you?”

“What the fuck? Is that what this is about? Pete, you asshole, you—” He cuts off when Pete licks the tip of his dick, swirling his tongue around and dipping it into the slit. His words slide into a desperate moan, his voice halfway wrecked when he nods, face flaring redder than it has any right to be. “Fine, fuck, fine. I take it back. It’s not… It’s not fucking pity so will you please stop being such a tease?”

Pete’s a tease by nature and watching people come undone is one of his favorite things to do; it’s not his fault if Patrick just so happens to be his favorite person to do it to.

“Yeah, sure,” Pete says. “But first…” He stands, ignoring the way Patrick slams his hands against the counter in frustration. 

His fingers press into the supple flesh of Patrick’s bottom lip and, eyes narrowed and breaths heavy, Patrick opens his mouth and takes the fingers in. Warm, wet, and more enthusiastic than he’d ever admit, Patrick sucks on Pete’s fingers, coating every bit of them with his spit. His tongue slides between the two, his glare fading with each flick of his tongue. Too soon— far sooner than he’d like— Pete pulls his fingers free and lowers. 

This time, Pete takes Patrick in as far as he can and sucks. Patrick thrusts up, the way Pete knew he would, and tosses his head back in bliss. Pete bobs his head up and down the shaft until he feels Patrick’s hips stutter, the thighs beside his head trembling with the need to come. One hand presses down on Patrick’s hip to keep him still; with the other, he works a finger into Patrick’s hole. 

Pete pulls off from Patrick’s dick and turns to bite at the thick thighs beside him, working his finger in and out as he does so. Patrick whines and gasps and cries, the sounds only increasing in volume when Pete adds another finger, earlier than he should but not to anyone’s complaint.

His fingers still pumping in and out of Patrick’s ass, Pete stands and kisses the other’s collarbone, gratifying at the salty sweat meeting his tongue when he licks across the precious skin. He could stay here forever, drunk on Patrick’s pleasure, but Patrick tugs at his hair, pulling him up for a biting kiss as Pete curls his fingers, finding that special spot within him. Patrick jerks up, flat on his back now, and Pete leans over him, smiling at how Patrick’s cock brushes against his stomach each time Patrick thrusts up for the friction. 

Pete pulls his fingers from Patrick right as Patrick’s moans increase, right as his voice jumps up an octave. All it takes is Pete’s hand on Patrick’s dick, a few strokes and squeezes, and Patrick comes with a piercing cry between both of them, back arching violently before he falls back down against the countertop.

Patrick’s still heaving for breath, beyond dazed and disoriented, when Pete slips his hands beneath his back and helps him to sit back up. Half-dressed, his shirt soaked in sweat and come, Patrick falls forward onto Pete, his face pressed against his neck. 

“What about you?” He breathes, reaching for the tent in Pete’s pants. “I should… I can…”

“No,” Pete says, grabbing Patrick’s wrist and pulling back to kiss the inside of it. Without Patrick’s cries or moans filling the air, Pete’s suddenly aware of the thunderous thrumming of his pulse as it rages through his body, flooding him with something he’s decided not yet to name. “This was about you.”

There’s a beaming smile on Patrick’s face when he pulls back, more brilliant than any Pete has ever seen before, and their lips come together as if magnetized. Tongues slip against each other, devouring every word that might be said, that might ruin the moment.

Pete holds onto Patrick and swears never to let go.

~

Everything changes and, yet, nothing really does. 

It’d be easy to wallow, Pete imagines— to settle into the haze and confusion that follows. It’d be easy to wander around— behind or in front of Patrick but never beside him. It’d be easy to accept that he doesn’t quite understand his place— their place— in the world.

But easier than all of that is forgetting that the world exists at all.

Weeks pass in a blur of tangled sheets and sleepless nights, curled together with nothing but their desires between them. It’s all a mirage of hesitant kisses, each one feeling like the first and lingering like it’s their last, and Pete never stops wondering if he’ll wake up.

Over time, he forgets why he came, the memory only arising when he hears their band on the radio or when he catches Patrick frowning at nothing— or, as Pete supposes, at the past.

At times like that, Pete takes Patrick’s hand; they sit down and stare not at the years behind them or the years ahead.

They share smiles at the proof of what they now have.

~

When he sleeps, Pete dreams that Patrick confesses his love. In whispers, in breaths, in delicate kisses against the back of his neck.

For once, Pete doesn’t speak during these moments. He keeps still, breaths even, and refuses to open his eyes lest he wake to a world less beautiful than this— a world he once loved for all the ways it could never quite love him back.

But this is different.

Patrick pulls the blanket up to Pete’s shoulders gently as Pete sleeps— for Pete must be asleep in moments like this— and brushes dark hair back with soft hands. He bends, his breath warm, and whispers “I love you” in Pete’s ear.

The words drop like anchors in Pete’s soul, the only solace in his storm when he hears such a dream— for it must only be a dream. 

Still, he remembers these dreams in far greater detail than any dream he has ever had before. 

And, it seems, Patrick remembers them, too.

~

They make a strange sort of progress, losing track of days and nights. Pete keeps time by the words they share, the promises they make each time he has Patrick’s lips so close to his own. It’s easy but it’s also terrifying; every promise made is another one that can ultimately be broken.

One promise, though, Patrick keeps.

“Let’s spend time outside,” Pete says one morning after a too-long and too-hot shower. He’s getting dressed, back to Patrick as he tugs up some jeans, but he still feels eyes on his back. It takes an inhuman amount of self-control not to turn around and give into whatever gaze Patrick’s giving him. “You promised me you’d let me pick what we’d do today.”

“Did I?” Patrick’s tone is something to be expected, lazy and teasing— a lock without a key and it drives Pete crazy in all the best ways. “Why would I say something like that?”

_ Because you love me _ . It dances on the tip of Pete’s tongue and he swallows it down with a smile, turning to face Patrick.

“Because, deep down, you’re getting really sick of this house.” Playing it safe even though the rules were tossed aside a while ago; playing it dangerously even though Patrick’s smile still doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Patrick sighs, stretching enough for his pajama shirt to ride up his stomach, showing the pale expanse of skin Pete’s grown addicted to once again. Relapse into one of his favorite habits.

“I suppose you’re right,” Patrick says, surprising Pete with the sincerity in his voice. “Anywhere specific in mind?” 

“There’s an outdoor farmers market nearby, right?” Pete asks, panicking and jumping to the first idea that pops into his head. “We can go check that out.”

“Oh, you really do mean outside-outside. Okay, then.” Patrick lifts himself from the bed easily, straightening out his shirt once he’s standing— an unfortunate action, though it does drag Pete’s gaze back up to his face. “I guess I should actually put some effort into getting ready. Can’t promise it’ll be quick.” 

His words don’t welcome hesitation until the last few sentences, the hint of fear that Pete’s grown accustomed to during his time here. It’s less than it has been, though— less a seed to worry over and more a leftover leaf yet to be raked away.

Pete smiles as Patrick walks past him toward the bathroom, running a hand through his hair as he does so. It’s a mess of red and blonde at this point, the darker roots showing beneath the golden field he’d bleached in months ago. Patrick had said something about dyeing it back last night but he hadn’t said which color he’d been referring to. 

Pete keeps from giving his own opinion, even if he smiles softly at the natural color anyway.

He’s brought from these thoughts when Patrick leans in before leaving, his lips brushing against Pete’s because— Pete reminds himself— they can do that now. Without warning and without reason and, with each surprise kiss from one to the other, Pete becomes more certain that Patrick’s are the lips he was built to love.

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” Patrick says, pulling away with fluttering lashes. He pauses, laughing lightly to himself, and then nods toward the window. “I might need something to keep the sun from my eyes. It’s looking pretty bright outside.”

Pete doesn’t turn to see what he’s talking about, more aware of the shades of gold than Patrick knows. The brilliance of the sky paints the room and Pete basks in the heat, knowing none of it compares with the warmth sticking to his lips.

~

It’s even brighter outside, the sun glaring into Pete’s eyes even as he shadows himself with a hand pressed to his forehead, a mock salute to the sweat gathering on his palms with each passing second. His other hand holds a blue popsicle, something he bought on a whim, and he has no hands left to wipe away the juice dripping down his chin. Not that he minds; it’s another easy way to keep cool and, today, he needs it. It’s Spring, only Spring, but something in the air burns like the press of Patrick’s fingers to his skin.

Patrick, of course, says nothing about it even though he’s sweating twice as much as Pete is. 

He’s also wearing a hat— something he pulled free from the back of the coat closet, the brim too long and the size too large— to keep away the chance of burning. Pete won’t say it out loud but he feels that this may be the reason for the prickling heat on the back of his neck.

“Maybe this was a bad idea, after all,” Pete says, turning and flicking the brim of Patrick’s cap. “Let’s head to a store where your delicate skin won’t get all fried. Or, at least, let’s get you a hat that fits.”

Patrick laughs— breathily, not entirely into it— and ducks away from further harassment, tugging the brim down low.

“I used to have hats that fit perfectly.” Patrick says this even though Pete knows and even though he knows Pete knows. “But I threw them all out after starting on the solo performance thing.”

The last part, Pete didn’t know. He might have guessed it if he was asked, wouldn’t deny it if presented with the question, but it still twists a bitter taste next to the chill of frozen blueberry in his mouth.

“Oh,” he says, though Patrick wasn’t looking for a response. “That’s, well—”

“It’s pathetic, you can say it.” Patrick responds with his own flavor of bitterness, most of it directed at himself. “But, I mean, at least it wasn’t all on purpose. I didn’t think that, oh, let’s burn all the shit that makes me think of the band. It was more of, I guess, just distancing myself from who I was. All subconscious choices. I didn’t realize how far I’d gone until, like, today.”

Pete hums and the tune feels guilty in his throat— guilty enough that he wonders if it’s Fall Out Boy song or a Patrick Stump song stuck in his head. In the end, though, he decides they’re probably the same thing and shrugs, out of clever things to say. Instead of a forced response or a drawn out confession, he slips his popsicle from his mouth and teases Patrick’s lips with it until Patrick, with a sigh, opens up and takes it from Pete. Cheeks hollowed and eyes pointedly averted as he grabs hold of the stick and sucks it in deeper, he makes for a pretty sight. Pete can’t help but lean in to press a kiss to the corner of Patrick’s mouth because, he thinks, he can do that.

Except Patrick pulls back and pushes him away, suddenly scowling.

“We’re in public,” he says, yanking the popsicle from his mouth. His words are a hiss, barely even heard above the families moving among them.

Pete’s cheeks burn. 

“Okay,” he says even though it’s the last thing he wants to say. Because he’s self-destructive and smart in his self-sabotage, he continues with forced nonchalance. “What if the band got back together? What would happen to us then?”

He worries too late about Patrick denying there being an “us”. He panics over being laughed at, over another rejection of his own doing. 

Patrick’s scowl deepens but the similar panic in Patrick’s eyes belies any true malice

“That’s a big if,” he says, ignoring the question. “Just drop it, okay?”

Pete wants to continue, is ready to fight more on the subject, but Patrick knows him well. 

The popsicle is suddenly back in his hands and Patrick is walking away.

~

Though the outdoor excursion didn’t end quite how Pete had hoped— Patrick had purchased many vegetables but had refused to speak about anything deeper than corn for the rest of the day— he allows himself to become complacent in his “fix Patrick” mission. Half because he doesn’t want to smother Patrick but also half because it doesn’t feel like Patrick really needs fixing anymore.

A part too small to be counted among the fractions wonders if Patrick needed fixing to begin with or if it was all a delusion Pete used to convince himself Patrick needed him. 

He ignores this thought until it’s barely existent, nothing to ponder now even if that only means he’ll be writing songs about it in a future he can’t quite see yet.

~

Pete’s inclined to dislike anything that wakes him from a dreamless sleep but when it’s Patrick, when it’s Patrick’s music, it’s hard to find any reason to complain. He doesn’t open his eyes when he feels Patrick’s fingers running thoughtlessly through his hair one night, dull nails scratching his scalp, and he doesn’t speak when he hears Patrick’s gentle sighs. Slowly, the world fades in and Pete hears soft clacks of a keyboard, the telltale scrape of a touch pad dragged around, and music.

Patrick’s working on music. Pete knows because Patrick has one earbud in and has left the other resting on the bed beside Pete. Pete holds his breath, eyes shut tight, and listens with a thudding in his heart as if he’d waken from a nightmare. He catches some guitar, some bass, something of a voice.; his stomach twists the way it would when it was Christmas Eve and he’d hear noises outside his room, certain he’d catch Santa in the act this time.

But Santa never came in and Patrick’s near impossible to trick.

“I know you’re awake,” he says, his brushing of Pete’s hair stilling only once. Pete tenses but then relaxes, cracking an eye open to look up at Patrick, lit only by the light of his laptop.

“I’m sorry,” he says, meaning it. “I didn’t mean to listen it, I just—”

“It’s okay. I knew you would.” Patrick pulls his hand back to double his work on another track, frowning as he drags things around on screen. Pete laments the loss but only for a moment, opening his other eye to better watch as Patrick pauses his music and sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “I don’t know how much you heard but maybe you can help. This music, it’s… It’s not working. It feels happy but not obviously happy. Like, I want it to match the way I feel and it does but it also doesn’t. You know?”

Pete thinks back to screaming at empty pages and journal entries, folding his hands into fists and begging them to just write something. “Yeah.”

It’s no help but Patrick presses play anyway, slamming down on the button as if it’s the root to his problems. No loss, really; Pete has no advice to give.

“It’s okay.” Patrick’s tone is warm, almost cordial, and Pete wonders whether he’d spoken out loud or if they’re back to the place where they can read each other’s mind.

Pete hopes it’s the latter; he hopes his chance to glimpse into Patrick’s thoughts will come soon.

As if answering his prayers, Patrick flicks the volume up a few more notches, enough that Pete can hear Patrick’s voice flowing from the small earbud speakers. It’s still not enough to make out any words— if there are any— but it’s enough for Pete to catch the tune, to fall even more in love than he already thought he was.

Too soon— a verse or so later— Patrick pauses and worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Pete, with heavy eyelids and a low voice, looks up. 

“I need lyrics,” Patrick says, as easily as confessing to love. Pete’s heart spins in his chest and he chokes on his breath, enough so that Patrick looks over and calls his name in concern. He’s still dizzy when he’s done, blinded by Patrick’s words and everything he wants them to mean; he’s still gasping for understanding, struggling to find the proper response. He has a thousand notebooks he can hand over, a million thoughts for Patrick to interpret.

Instead, Pete shakes his head and shuts his eyes, reaching out to take Patrick’s hand.

“You don’t. You don’t need my lyrics,” he says, the words both easy and difficult to speak. “You just need to sing. You’ve always just needed to sing.”

He doesn’t want to see Patrick’s reaction, to find out of if he’s frustrated or if he agrees, but he can’t help but open his eyes when feels the bed shake, when he hears something that could be a laugh.

“So do you suggest I just say la la la the whole time?” Patrick is smiling when he says this, looking down at Pete as if amazed. “Will that catch your heart?”

The sarcasm breaks any fear Pete had been holding onto and he collapses into his own tired giggles, smiling back at Patrick as if it’s their first time writing a song.

“If you sing with the intention of winning my heart, then you’ll always get it,” he says. “I swear.”

Patrick doesn’t respond with another joke; he barely responds, at all.

“Huh,” he says. “Okay.”

And then he gets back to work.

Pete doesn’t say that he’s going back to sleep but Patrick seems to notice regardless, placing his hand back on Pete’s head and brushing through his hair with his fingers. 

Usually, when Pete dreams, he dreams that Patrick confesses his love. 

Tonight, though, he’s still certain he’s awake when Patrick pulls his hand away, just long enough to move the earbud closer to Pete. His heart swells and he’s certain he won’t be able to sleep comfortably without the organ crushing his ribs.

He’s wrong, though. He falls asleep easily and, for the first time in a long time, it’s to the sound of Patrick’s music.

~

Music, as always, quells the panic in Pete’s soul and he finds himself understanding time once more. He doesn’t watch it pass by the way he’s been doing, counting the times he wakes in Patrick’s bed rather than actual days. He watches sunrises and sunsets, smiling at each star, and lets every moment linger in whatever way it wants. This makes time seem slower, more precious, and it’s only a week later when he finds Patrick’s computer open and alone, every music track left for him to see.

Patrick’s in the shower and Pete’s in the bedroom they’ve come to share, staring at the number of tracks laid out before him, each one promising something he hasn’t heard before. A frisson of excitement travels across his skin as he steps closer, scanning through titles before deciding to do so.

Most of the songs are named generically, alternating between random words or collections of numbers. The tempting one from before—  _ MY _ , the one Patrick forbade him from listening to before— has an addition to its title in the form of “missing you” in parentheses beside it. 

Lip between his teeth and body tense, Pete forces himself to turn away as he crawls into the bed. Patrick wouldn’t want him listening. Patrick wouldn’t want him snooping.

But the screen calls to him like a siren with its hypnotic glow across the dimly lit room and Pete turns around with a frown when it becomes too much to handle. Temptation tickles his thoughts and his fingers find the touch pad within an instant, the cursor traversing the screen with a speed that begs him to listen to something.

He leads it to the corner of the page, to the option to minimize the current app. Out of sight and out of mind— not that that worked with Patrick himself. Still, it should work for the songs and, he finds, it does.

It works because he finds something so much more tempting. A word document blinks up at him, filled with typed out paragraphs he can’t help but read. It’s formatted like Patrick’s blog and it’s written in his voice, a hundred or so words that Pete tells himself he’s only scanning to be sure it’s nothing like the last one. Alarm ripples down his spine at the very thought and it only causes him to read quicker.

The paragraphs, he notices, are more outline than they are actual content, promising the world that Patrick’s okay and that he’s writing music again. Patrick’s taken care to mention that he didn’t really mean to sound so dramatic in the last post and that it was blown out of proportion. Pete knows first hand that that’s a lie but he also knows better than most that such lies can be necessary when the vultures will be the first to read this.

Overall, it’s all simple. Happy Patrick back to dazzle the world, or so it promises. It’s what’s at the end that has Pete swallowing down a nervous knot, reading the thing a dozen times over.

In italics, it reads  _ Should I mention Pete? _

Pete blinks and rubs his eyes, turns up the brightness and makes sure he’s reading it right. That part of the page goes on in a more personal tone as Patrick tries to figure out how to phrase— if he wants to phrase it.

_ I can tell them that a special friend has visited and that he’s helped me to feel better _ , it says.  _ I can say that my best friend has reminded me that not everything is as bad as I thought it was. I can say that my someone close— someone I love?— is back in my life when I never thought they would be and that I don’t deserve it but I’m happier than I thought was possible after everything else the world has shown me? _

_ Is that dramatic? Or is it too honest?  _

_ What would Pete want me to say? What does he want? _

Seconds pass by endlessly, silent crowds of them, brushing by and whispering the words to him on repeat— over and over but never fully in a way Pete can understand. He doesn’t notice when Patrick shows up, only feels fingers curling around his shoulders and a warm chest pressing up against his back. An apology forms itself on Pete’s tongue but he swallows it— it and a thousand more words, a hundred questions asking how he did anything to help so much— when he turns his head and sees Patrick’s smile. Patrick’s still damp from the shower and his hair’s darker for it, the blonde finally growing out enough that Pete can finally stop pretending that Patrick’s hair is the same shade he fell in love with. 

Blue eyes twinkle beneath dark red-brown bangs hanging in his face, flushed but smiling all the same. This is Patrick. This is what he came to save.

Pete can’t bring himself to say this, only choking out what he means the most. “I’m glad you didn’t quit music forever.”

Impossibly, Patrick’s smile grows. 

“Well, I was never going to quit it forever,” he says, running his fingers down Pete’s face. “You just made me want to share it with the world again.”

~

The days become hotter; the two become lazier, happier, simpler. 

Patrick tires more easily and blames it on the heat rolling through the house. Pete doesn’t point out that he sleeps in the same bed as Patrick and knows that he’s lying, knows that Patrick’s only tired at day because he stays up all night working on songs. Patrick is pure music and Pete could never fault him for following his nature. Besides, it gives him the excuse he needs to bring Patrick breakfast in bed in the mornings and to fall asleep to his genius at night.

He doesn’t tell Patrick but he doesn’t dream much anymore. Everything he wants is already there when he opens his eyes.

Well. Everything but one piece.

He brings it up while they’re both in the bath, small enough that Patrick can fit with his back pressed to Pete’s chest. Warm water and cool bubbles swirl around them as they enjoy the silence, the scent of lavender from one of Patrick’s more expensive soaps, and Patrick breathes as if asleep. Pete’s debating waking him when Patrick startles him with a little murmur.

“I’m not done with that song yet,” he says, half of it sounding like a whisper. “I still can’t fit any words in it.”

Pete watches a drop of water slide down the curve of Patrick’s shoulder before licking his lips and speaking.

“I have words. I have an entire song I was writing for you before I came here.” He’s hesitant, weighing his words but not feeling their impact until they’ve left his lips. For once, he hopes Patrick can feel it, too. It’s not a romantic song that he’s confessing; it’s something bitter about getting fucked up on love and going home alone. It’s honesty and it’s hurt and it’s old-fashioned Wentz emotion.

And, in true Wentz fashion, it’s something he needs Patrick to have.

Patrick sits up and turns to face Pete, his eyebrows furrowed toward each other as if Pete’s heartbeat had whispered all these thoughts to him.

“Are you sure it’s something I should be singing?” He sounds afraid, more cautious with his words than even Pete had been. His eyes focus in on Pete’s expression, trying to read what cruelty he’s invented now.

Water splashes outside the tub as Pete sits up, as well, reading every assumption on Patrick’s pretty face.

“It’s nothing mean,” he says, wincing a little when he sees Patrick’s doubt. “Well, it’s nothing obviously mean. It might sound like that but, really, it’s just supposed to be the way I felt when we were apart. It was… It’s just a lot of hurt.”

Patrick’s mouth twists up in objection but he doesn’t give in, laying his head back down on Pete’s chest with a heavy breath. 

“I guess I get that,” he says. “I was the same in my songs.”

Pete’s heard Patrick’s songs— “Everybody Wants Somebody” and “Love, Selfish Love” were on repeat for a while. He knows and he’s glad Patrick doesn’t take the time to explain. 

“But, you know,” Patrick continues, interrupting Pete’s thoughts, “if I take your lyrics, it won’t be for another Patrick Stump song; it’ll be for a Fall Out Boy one.”

Patrick says it like stating a fact, like it’s something they both already knew, and only the way he turns to his side to look up at Pete with a challenging stare gives away his truer thoughts.

Pete wants to pull away, to give himself space to properly think this out because he’d always imagined he’d be the one to bring up the suggestion of the band, always pictured himself with the steady gaze and patient words. 

Instead, Patrick turns completely, straddles him with water dripping distractedly down his chest and hips, and Pete can’t seem to say the things he wants. He brushes his tongue along the roof of his mouth, trying to keep it from drying out completely.

“Are you saying that because you’d want it or…” He trails off, Patrick shrugging in response.

“I’m saying it because it’d be true.” Patrick presses his hands to Pete’s chest and Pete doesn’t know whether it’s to still himself or Pete or both. “My music and your words… Isn’t that what our songs usually are? Would you deny that?”

“No, never,” Pete says, pressing his hands over Patrick’s. He wonders if Patrick can feel his heartbeat, if he’s composing a song to go along with the rhythm the way he always did before. “But just because that’s true, it doesn’t mean you’d want that or that you even mean it like that. And I—” He cuts off, looking to the side.

Patrick hesitates, shifting from side to side without care of how the water around them teases the edges of the bath. 

“I can’t promise to mean it as much as you want me to. Not right now and not after everything.” Patrick chooses his words carefully, his cautious sinking into the air around them like a spell. “But some of the stuff I’ve been writing is meant to be played by the band and that has to mean something. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” Pete nods slowly, swallowing as Patrick nods along with him, reassuring himself. When enough time has passed, the water still and the air calmed, Pete places his hands on Patrick’s hips. “So we try to get the band back together. That’s cool. What does that mean for us?”

“Well, we’re already together, aren’t we?” Patrick’s answer is quick, if a bit afraid. He looks down at Pete, not bothering to hide the questions in his eyes. “I thought we were. Or, at least, I thought we were working towards it.”

A gentle smile tugs on Pete’s lips. He tightens his grip on Patrick as he shifts beneath him, sitting up so he press a kiss to Patrick’s chin. Patrick’s still but he doesn’t move away as Pete hides his face in Patrick’s neck, feeling the soft tremors of Patrick’s body as the cooled water in Pete’s hair drips onto his skin.

“We should have been together a long time ago,” he says, sounding more exhausted than he feels. He doesn’t admit that it was his fault and he doesn’t point fingers at Patrick, either; they’ve done enough of that in the past. “But starting now doesn’t seem like a bad idea.”

Pete can feel Patrick’s hesitation wavering as he moves his hands to rest on Pete’s back, holding him close as he steadies his own breaths.

“It won’t fix everything,” Patrick says softly, whispering the words so lowly that Pete isn’t certain they’re for him. “Getting the band back together… getting  _ us  _ together… It’s not a fix-all situation. There’s still going to be some cracks. We can’t forget all those fights and we can’t promise we won’t hurt each other again.”

Pete pulls away, his smile fading when he looks at Patrick’s sorry blue eyes. “Can we at least try?”

Patrick’s lips form the the beginning of a  _ no _ , his face scrunching up in some internal pain, but it all falls away the second his eyes meet Pete’s. 

“We have been trying.” He leans in, head dipped down to press his lips close to Pete’s— close enough that Pete could brush them with his own if he wanted, close enough to feel Patrick’s warm breath as a kiss of its own. 

“And has it been working?” He asks, breathing heavy and wondering if Patrick feels the same jumpstart in his heart when their breaths collide. 

Patrick answers in the shape of a smile. “We’re no picket fence but we’re close.”

It feels like a lyric; Patrick’s grin promises that it is. Pete could waste time and ask what he means, ask where it came from, but there are better ways to find his answer.

When Patrick leans forward and seals their lips together in a kiss, Pete swears he hears music in his head. 

“Patrick, can I—” He lowers a hand, resting it beneath Patrick’s navel, his fingers barely brushing the mess of copper gold curls framing his cock. Patrick rocks forward, gasping as he does.

“Yeah, of course.  _ Fuck _ .” His eyes flutter open and shut, his voice low and demanding. Water spills around them and Pete considers leaving, crawling out and dragging Patrick to the bed, but then Patrick’s cock brushes against his stomach and he can’t bring himself to move away. He smiles as Patrick kisses him again, swallowing each others’ breaths and moans.

Patrick jerks impatiently when Pete brings his hand up instead, stroking languidly across his chest until landing on a pretty pink nipple. He runs his thumb over it teasingly, smiling when Patrick arches toward the touch, pulling away from Pete’s mouth to bite back a cry. Pete follows him, though, pressing kisses to his jaw and neck as another hand presses flat against Patrick’s chest, fingertips scratching his other bud. He doesn’t have to look to know Patrick’s biting his lip, his breaths hissing out between his teeth.

“Still so sensitive,” Pete says, smiling at Patrick’s reddened face. Patrick frowns, hips jerking sporadically in search for the friction of Pete’s skin. He shifts, lower and lower, until he’s halfway in the water once again and it’s not Pete’s chest he’s jerking against— it’s his cock. It’s unsteady, unbalanced, but Pete still groans deeply when Patrick’s dick shifts against his. He grabs Patrick’s shoulder, pulling him closer with a force that could bruise. His other hand slips into the water between them, taking them both in a sloppy grip meant to jerk them off together.

“Fuck,” Patrick says again, tossing his head back and reaching to help with a shaking hand of his own. His voice sounds choked when he moans and curses and whispers Pete’s name but there’s nothing but pleasure in his eyes when he looks to Pete, nothing wrong but for how the water has cooled around them. 

“You’re perfect, you know that?” Pete says between labored breaths, struggling forward to plant a kiss on any place of Patrick’s skin he can; it lands somewhere on his neck. He could do this forever, he decides, kissing and watching and loving Patrick. Patrick doesn’t respond and Pete repeats himself, though he knows Patrick heard. “Fucking perfect.” 

He tightens his grip and Patrick squeaks, his own hand nearly losing its rhythm as he jerks up onto his knees fully, reaching to grab the edge of the bath with a white-knuckled grip. He’s beautiful, divine, everything Pete never knew he wanted but always knew he needed. 

“Stop talking,” Patrick grunts, not sounding like he truly means it. “It’s distracting.” 

Pete chokes out a laugh. Distracting is the way Patrick keeps biting his lips, the way his breaths come from the reddened mouth that Pete dreams in the shape of every night. Distracting is how pretty Patrick is and how often Pete wonders if he deserves moments like these.

Still. Pete shakes his head and focuses his attention on Patrick, forgoing his own pleasure to give Patrick’s cock a long stroke. Patrick spits out another curse, fumbling to get Pete in his hand to return the affection.

Pete’s dreamt of this, of watching Patrick fall apart beneath his hand again, and every fantasy pales in comparison to the real thing. Patrick leans forward, his head on Pete’s shoulder, and Pete turns to bite and nip at his ear, thrumming with heat every time Patrick jerks from the attention. Pete’s burning and he’s never been happier about it.

“I’m close.” Patrick sounds strangled, choked, like he’s burning along with Pete. Even his breaths sound demanding. “I’m, fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Wait.”

Pete closes his fingers around the base of Patrick’s dick, cutting off Patrick’s rambling gibberish of  _ I’m gonna cum I’m gonna— _

Patrick cries out, high-pitched and needy, and Pete feels every one of his muscles clench in frustration. His head falls forward, his chin hitting his chest, and he heaves for breath, his words leaving him in a mess of  _ please let me, please make me, please fucking touch me _

He’s beautiful.

Pete’s words aren’t half as melodic, nothing but a broken voice the way all his lyrics appear on the page.

“I’m scared,” he says, eyes on Patrick’s back, curved forward and hiding everything else from view. His spine sticks out in little ridges, valleys and mountains and an entire world in his body. Something softer clings to his sides, something that gives beneath Pete’s hand when he presses into it.

Patrick whispers  _ what the fuck _ before looking up beneath sweat damp bangs. He looks accussing but he also looks like Patrick— the Patrick Pete left and the Patrick he found and the Patrick he’ll discover when the band’s back and everything changes and stays the same, the way he’s always wanted.

He looks irresistibly immortal and Pete wants nothing more than to live beside him for however long he’s allowed.

He can barely think of why he stopped other than the beauty before him, the sudden realization that having something means that he can lose it. His heart pounds with more than electric desire and flaming needs; it beats with fear and terror and everything he can’t quite hold in his own hands by himself.

Shaking and trembling, caught in the bathroom lights spilling around them, Patrick leans back and places a hand over Pete’s.

“It’s okay.” His breaths interrupt his words, constricting them into something more afraid than they should be. “I’m scared, too. But we’ll be there to protect each other, this time. And this time I know for sure that I love you.”

“I love you.” Pete’s words are wet and damp and bursting with life. Slowly, he releases Patrick and strokes again, Patrick jerking Pete off at the same time. “I love you.”

He could say this a thousand times, a million times, but it would never be enough. It would never sink in entirely but, he knows, it’s okay. They’re okay.

“I love you so fucking much.” He’s still saying this when he twists his wrist just the right way and has Patrick jerking back up to the edge, to the brink of his climax. Patrick does the same, squeezing and pulling and running his thumb over the head. 

It takes a kiss, another twist of the wrist and brush of their cocks against each other, and Patrick explodes over his hand, screaming out his name and shaking enough that Pete’s certain half the bath water has ended up on the floor. Pete follows when Patrick leans forward, his head against Pete’s shoulder, everything burning brilliant shades behind his eyes when Patrick brings him his perfect release. 

No one speaks; no one has to. Pete hears nothing but shuddering breaths and dripping drops of water and some strange tone of music behind it all. A wave of ease and comfort arises from some forgotten place.

When Patrick looks up and kisses him, Pete sinks into a happiness he’s never known before.

~

The day they decide to call the others is a day like any other and, yet, it’s one of the most beautiful days Pete’s ever seen. The curtains in Patrick’s living room are parted and they’re seated on the couch together, legs pressed together so closely they may as well belong to the same being. The room’s cast in a golden light, the shadows skirted by the brilliance of the sun streaming in. 

The phone in Pete’s hand is damp from the sweat of his palm and Patrick’s seems to be the same, passed back and forth between Patrick’s hands in an old nervous habit that never really winked out of existence. Still, they share smiles and anxious laughs, and Pete presses even closer to Patrick to absorb some of that ease.

“Okay, so, I think Joe will be more willing to listen to me,” Patrick says. “I saw him a bit ago at, uh, at one of the Soul Punk shows and he seemed to be doing well. I just think I need to promise him more chances to write.”

“And I’ll promise Andy not to start anymore fights for him to drag me out of,” Pete says, grinning back at Patrick. “You ready?”

Patrick takes a deep breath and holds it, eyes somewhere above Pete’s shoulder. 

In that moment— in that one second— Pete dreams of an entire future. He takes in the sight of Patrick as he is now and every detail seems crisper when he realizes that this is the last time he’ll be seated next to this Patrick— the Patrick of the hiatus, the Patrick of the solo heartbroken years. This is the last time either of them will be without a band because Pete knows— oh, god, he knows like he knows his heart is beating— that the others will say yes. They’ll make their demands and they’ll air their complaints but Pete knows they’ll say yes.

This, seated in the warm summer air as spring draws itself to a close, is the last time he or Patrick will be alone. 

He doesn’t sleep and he doesn’t shut his eyes but he dreams of the past and all its promises left behind; he dreams of the future and everything he knows it will be. He dreams of fans and bright lights and Patrick at his side— always, Patrick at his side. Gingerly, these images present themselves before him, asking that he protect it— asking that he understand it.

“Yes,” Patrick says, his simple breath breaking through the reverie. Golden sun on bright blue eyes, he smiles back at Pete with the same smile he’d been wearing since they agreed to try again. “Are you?”

Pete thinks of the past, the wild way he loved and the leonine pain he’d felt in his chest. He thinks of the future, everything he can have and everything Patrick’s presenting to him now.

Pete thinks of the present and their promise to protect each other.

Pete thinks of the present and he thinks of Patrick.

With a smile of his own, he takes Patrick’s hand, grateful for the way Patrick’s fingers curl around his.

“Yes.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Well, thank you for reading! It means a lot and I hope you liked it. My tumblr is folie-aplusieurs so feel free to come chat with me on there <3


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